The Honorable Man

By Charles Moore

When Danny Miller, a retired dentist, is murdered for no apparent reason, and the police begin their investigation, Johnny “Clubs” Murdock is hired to observe and report on the progress of the investigation. Without trying he becomes more and more involved until, more by luck than by design, the truth, as clear as any truth can be, comes to light.

Johnny Murdock’s business is making inquiries about people’s lives and habits. He would tell you, for example, that memories are determined by perspective but are also shrouded by the fog of age. He would also tell you that an all-important notion of honor is hard to define and changes over time. He might add that a strange mixture of honor and the fog of age is sometimes deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Moore
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311982124

Charles Moore

Charles Moore is an art historian, writer, and curator based in New York and the author of The Black Market: A Guide to Art Collecting and The Brilliance of the Color Black Through the Eyes of Art Collectors. Moore received his master's degree from Harvard University and currently is a third-year doctoral student at Columbia University Teachers College, researching the life and career of abstract painter Ed Clark.

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Charles F. Moore

Published by Charles F. Moore at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by Charles F. Moore

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to events, places, and persons, living or dead, is unintentional. I have included several historical facts to help fix times and place as well as motive.

I enthusiastically thank Janet Fisher, Dianne Hannan, Nina Holmes, and Kim Stroud for their assistance and suggestions. I appreciate the staff of the Johnson City Public Library for their tolerance with all my questions. The cover design is by Nancy Fischman. Also, a nod of thanks to Earl Rice for triggering some vivid images that were new to me. I appreciate the encouragement of my many friends.

I recognize each new venture is an accumulation of events and efforts. This time I had to read up on Vietnam and the Dead Sea scrolls which seems like a very unlikely alliance. I suggest, although there are many books about the war in Vietnam, you might indulge in Vietnam: The Heartland Remembers (Stanley W. Beesley, University of Oklahoma Press, 1987) for some very interesting personal narratives about serving in Vietnam.

I do not at all feel like I can do justice to the horrors of combat. Nor have I tried to be perfectly accurate. That is not a goal for my purposes of writing this. Good novels describe the nuance of feeling and emotions. This is not a novel about war.

It almost seems unnecessary to remind readers that all errors are mine.

*****

…pandemonium obscured within the fog of war. Winston Groom, Shiloh, 1862.

War is an area of uncertainty; three quarters of the things on which all action in War is based are lying in a fog of uncertainty to a greater or lesser extent. The first thing (needed) here is a fine, piercing mind, to feel out the truth with the measure of its judgment. Carl von Clausewitz: Wikipedia.com source Carl von Clausewitz, Vom Kriege, Book 1, Chapter 3. (On War)

Creon to Antigone: Your act of grace, in this regard, is crime.

*****

CHAPTER ONE

The door to Murdock’s office was open to the corridor and the corridor door was open to the outer doors out onto the street. His office was in a piazza --essentially the backside of a U-shaped commercial building-- with a sun roof and louvers open to the sky. The day was warm. The sky high and bright. Nice warm day in late spring that might lead to a hot summer this year. The forecast was for drought. But, who knew? The long-term summer forecasts for the last three years had been wrong. There was no reason to believe this one would be any more accurate than the growth of his Nandina or the early migration of summer birds.

Johnny Clubs Murdock wondered for a moment about how he survived in a business where he mostly did favors.

Which was probably why Murdock didn’t notice the man standing in his doorway. The street noises were slight. The office quiet without the air-conditioning hum. The man politely waited and then knocked. Twice.

The man was tall. Probably a whole head taller than Murdock who was not short. And he, the man, was wide, but not in a fat way. Barrel chested. Broad shouldered. Stood easily on one foot. He had a friendly face. Clean face. Deep eyes. Close cropped hair but not combed. Dressed to go fishing. Big hands, too.

Mr. Murdock? His voice was not deep. Barely baritone. Comforting. A preacher?

Murdock nodded.

My name is Thomas Stansworth, pastor at Third Presbyterian. You got a minute?

Of course, Murdock had a minute. He always a minute when a potential client walked in the door. He rose. Shook hands with Stansworth. Offered a seat.

The office had two client chairs and a sofa. The sofa sat against the casement windows that opened to the hallway. The sofa was decorated in non-matching pillows, non-matching file folders, and a collection of women’s clothes on hangers which Stansworth politely acted to not notice. They both settled in with coffee, black. The preacher eyed the various certificates on Murdock’s walls. He didn’t seem to notice or care much about the desk extras like stapler, computer, or calendar, those sorts of things he’d expect. He did seem to find the hoochie-coochie doll as different, gave it a curious glance, but didn’t ask.

I’m a little new at the idea of talking to a private investigator. . . .

. . . Inquiries. . . .

Oh, said Stansworth, yes, that’s what it says on your door. ‘Inquiries.’ I’m not sure where to start when talking about ‘inquires.’ We have a mutual friend. . . .

We do?

Runs Phogg’s Grill?

Murdock nodded knowingly.

I am a minister, as I said, at Third Presbyterian. One of my congregation is a good fishing buddy of mine and I’m concerned a bit about some of his personal property. But, I don’t know quite where to begin.

Are you wanting to hire me?

Well, for now, just pick your brain?

Murdock scanned the four checks, payments for a recently closed case, laying on his desk blotter. He could afford to have his brain picked for a little while.

What kind of property are we talking about, said Murdock.

A valuable document. Danny, that’s Danny Miller, my friend, is a retired dentist and several years ago he came by this document, an antique, that he has had framed and it really is quite extraordinary. Has had numerous offers to buy it, for a lot of money, I think, but decided to keep it, for whatever reasons. He allowed that he thought is was too important to just sell but he didn’t know who to sell it to or donate it to, either.

Is he aware you’re here?

I doubt it. I expressed my concern a couple of times that it’ll get stolen but he just pooh-poohed that notion.

You know, in the end, I can’t really do anything without his permission?

Well, yes, I understand. We can go meet him and see what he says?

If you hiring me to consult we’ll need to take care of some paperwork, said Murdock.

Oh, said Stansworth, the minister. How much are we talking about?

Two hundred down. Two hundred per day billed by the hour. Plus expenses.

Well, all I was wanting was you to give him your opinion.

Tell me more about this document, said Murdock. He refilled the coffees.

Danny owns this ancient scroll, said Thomas Stansworth. He slurped the hot coffee. Let his eyes roam Murdock’s sparse walls. Squirmed in his seat.

How do you know its ancient?

He told me. Apparently he’s gotten several offers. He keeps it in his home office. Mounted and framed on a wooden backing with a plexiglass cover. It looks old to me.

It’s easy to fool with aged paper and homemade inks. Anybody take it out and do some testing on it?

Not that I am aware of. He and Rebecca, Rebecca’s his wife, were in London several years ago and he bought it there and studied up on it a bit and then found it might be worth some money. He mentioned one time he just kept looking into what it represented and soon found it was worth real money.

How much money is real money?

He never told me and I didn’t pry.

But, said Murdock.

We were out fishing the other day and he admitted that the scroll was attracting attention. He’d been getting offers from overseas and in the Middle East. Nothing concrete. Mostly they were wanting confirmation of what he owned.

How was he supposed to do that?

He didn’t say.

Probably a fax or photograph. Nothing more than that. For now.

He didn’t seem concerned that any of the offers were legal or not. But, he was concerned that it ended up in reputable hands.

How big is this . . . thing?

About nine inches by nine inches. It’s just a fragment. If it’s the real thing. What do you know about the Dead Sea scrolls?

Not much more than anyone, I guess.

In the 1940s, a Bedouin herder finds these scrolls in a cave in the Jordanian desert. It was just luck. He had enough sense to realize they might be valuable so he handed a bunch over to a cousin who was antiques dealer in Israel, what was then called Palestine. Remember, Israel didn’t come into being until 1947, with the partition of Palestine. The dealer didn’t know either what he had so he sent a sample to the university. Somebody got a hold of them and ran some tests to determine ink and age of the paper. Leather, actually.

Leather?

Instead of papyrus they were written on leather.

What difference would that make?

For one, you, I mean the person doing the writing, can authenticate the leather being kosher. You can’t do that with reeds. And, leather was cheap. It was more plentiful in the desert, of course, instead of using reeds which confined you to places where a surplus of reeds grew. Superficially, they were suspected of being over two-thousand years old. You can imagine the excitement.

Sure can. Made somebody’s day!

The dealer forwarded a few but not all to the university. The herdsman told everyone he knew where he’d found them and that set off a rush. Before the authorities could catalog them all and protect the caves, there were something like fourteen caves, a lot got looted. Over the next fifty years or so they got much of it back but a significant percentage were sold privately. It was not illegal to sell them outside of Israel and Syria and those countries.

So how did your friend get his?

Bought ‘em in a bookstore. The bookseller might not have known what he had. Besides, what little I know, they’re not written in the Hebrew I see nowadays so I don’t know their authenticity. And I bet the seller in London didn’t either. Thanks to the Internet, Danny says he’s been able to check up on this kind of thing and I think he knows now he has some very valuable property. And it’s time to get them securely parked away.

Why? Has somebody made threats? He should go to the cops.

I don’t think anyone has actually warned him to be careful. He’s just a cautious kind of guy. As for the cops, I don’t think I’d even do that.

Why?

What are they going to do? Put a guard on the place? They can only kind of react.

You think he’s willing to talk to me?

Heck, I don’t know. I’m not sure he’ll ever talk to me again if I bring in someone to discuss security. People are like that.

I don’t know how I could help. There are security companies around town. Does he have motion sensors and door sensors?

Not a chance. He’s an old Nam veteran. Feels like he can take care of things himself.

That implies he’s got a gun. Does he? What’s he do for a living that would keep him from home?

He’s retired. So’s the wife. He used to be a dentist. Still owns a dental supply company. Does pretty well, too, I think. He’s not hurting for money as best as I can see.

But, you are worried.

Stansworth nodded.

Yes, he said. I’m worried. And it really isn’t any of my business. I have any number of members of the congregation who have valuables but I haven’t been told much about their concerns if there are any. Maybe this is Danny’s way of reaching out?

Wouldn’t be the first time, said Murdock.

What’s your minimum for an hour’s work?

They settled on the basic plan which Murdock made available to members of the clergy while Stansworth wrote directions to the Miller home.

CHAPTER TWO

The Millers lived at the edge of the city’s newly stretched boundaries that snaked out into the county, where one block in any three directions, and a person would be back in the county. To get to some of these subdivisions, the older main roads started in the city, took a stretch out in the county, and then back in the city again. The house was in an older subdivision of custom-built homes apparently only recently incorporated into the city. Murdock hadn’t had much call to visit this part of town or this part of the county over the recent years. Like many east Tennessee small towns, the boundaries wiggled their way between subdivisions and large farms and small industry, not always following a logical plan or the lay of the land. County lines could be straight as an arrow or follow the middle of the river. He and Stansworth wove their way to that end of the city, where no street seemed to ever go directly, found themselves forced to wait at a bridge under construction, but eventually rounded a corner, and were back in the city limits. What neither man probably counted on were the two city police cars, one deputy sheriff’s patrol car, and an ambulance crowded in the driveway of the Miller residence.

The deputy must have arrived first, his car was furthest up the driveway. The cops arrived next and the ambulance last. The house sat back from the street, well protected by woods. A one-story, modern house with a separate two-car garage and dog pen with a medium-sized black-and-white mongrel in a barking frenzy! In one of the police cars a woman was sitting in the back, crying and sobbing at full volume. She was white-haired, dressed in rough clothes, her face buried in her hands.

Thomas Stansworth approached the woman only to be shunted aside by an officer.

To the woman, Stansworth said, Rebecca? He pushed against the officer who stood his ground. What happened?

The woman looked up. Her eyes were red from crying. Her face was wet from the tears and wetness from the strain on her system. She apparently had applied makeup sometime during the day but now it was smudged and runny. She started to get up from the back seat but the struggle was too much and she slumped back into the seat. Stansworth looked around, pleading, to be allowed to comfort the woman.

Over the barking of the dog, the crackle of radio, and the general murmur of voices, someone said to Stansworth, Can I help you, Sir?

Murdock and Stansworth turned to see who was talking and Murdock found himself face to face with Sergeant Conner. Conner ignored Murdock.

Stansworth said, My name is Stansworth. I’m Rebecca’s pastor. What’s happened? Where’s Danny? Who are you?

The police. Name’s Conner. You’ll have to stay out of the way.

Without shoving, he pressured Stansworth to one side. All three men looked sympathetically towards the crying woman.

This is? said Murdock. He indicated the woman.

Rebecca Miller, said Stansworth.

Conner looked at Murdock. You her pastor, too?

They weren’t crossing swords. They were just greeting each other again. As if the only time they met was not over a drink but over dead bodies.

Can I ask what happened? said Stansworth.

There’s been a shooting. I can’t tell you anymore.

Can’t or won’t? said Stansworth.

Take your pick, said Conner.

Stansworth turned away and fished a cell phone out of his pocket. Over his shoulder, to Murdock, he said, I’ll call Ann and have her come over. Rebecca needs someone she can talk to.

Murdock nodded like he knew who Ann was.

Ann’s my wife, said Stansworth.

Murdock nodded a bit more knowingly.

Do you know, said Conner, if they have some close relatives?

I’ll ask, said Stansworth. If my wife is at the church office she’ll be able to look it up. I recall they have a daughter that lives in the Greeneville area.

Murdock turned his attention to Conner.

What will you tell me? said Murdock.

You working for him? said Conner. Nodded his head towards Stansworth.

Not yet. That’s why we were here.

To do what?

Talk to Mr. Miller about protecting some of his property.

Something valuable? What was it?

Some kind of document. A scroll. I don’t know about value but apparently it is important.

He asked you? What do you know about that kind of thing?

Enough to talk to the guy? Is he dead?

Pretty much, said Conner.

Mr. Stansworth? said Conner. Stansworth had made his call and stood aside partly frustrated and partly angry. How well did you know Mr. Miller? Enough to recognize him?

Well, sure. We fished together many times and I’ve pastored he and his wife for better than fifteen years. So, yes, I know him. Why?

Follow me. To Murdock, Conner said, You, too, if you want.

The afternoon sun shadowed the front porch creating