Truth in Madison

By Jarrod Robbins

As one of the country's most respected podcast journalists, David Lambert didn't have time to drive 300 miles south to the town of Madison, Tennessee. He was neck-deep in post production on a massive case. Dropping everything to nosedive into an active investigation was simply not something David had time to do. Hell, it's not even even something he was qualified to do. But, as of 2:47 this morning, all of that no longer mattered.

Right as he was about to take a sip of coffee, an email chime from his laptop would signal a seismic shift in David's world. A cryptic email from an anonymous source was about to pull him into a fight for his life in this deep fried suburb of Nashville.

Alone and far from home, David must navigate the treacherous waters between good and evil to hunt down a brutal killer in hopes of finding the one thing that matters to him most: the truth.

In his debut novel, Jarrod Robbins wrote a Detective Noir told through a modern kaleidoscope of intricately painted characters, raw emotion and hauntingly vulnerable vignettes. TRUTH IN MADISON is as beautifully written as it is thrilling to read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jarrod Robbins
• Release date: Apr 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463902127

Jarrod Robbins

Jarrod Robbins (1980-present) was born in Springfield, Ohio, but raised in the nearby village of Enon. Jarrod studied English at Wittenberg University before withdrawing and moving to Los Angeles in 2006 to pursue a career in acting and screenwriting.In 12 years there, he appeared in countless film and television productions. He also appeared in several award-winning plays such as Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, LA Horror Stories and the West Coast premier of the John Grisham best-seller A Time to Kill. A number of his screenplays were also produced including The Zombie Defense – a Horror Comedy which was an official selection of the Garden State Film Festival in 2017.In January of 2019, Jarrod moved to Nashville, Tennessee, to capitalize on the exploding film market of the American Southeast. It was there that he wrote his first novel, a modern take on the classic Detective Noir, entitled Truth in Madison. His second novel, a psychological thriller, is due out later in 2020.

Book preview

Chapter 1

DEVILS & DETAILS

But when you live under a bridge you know a murderer when you see one.

That was a line from the email. It's a line I instantly knew I would never forget. Even though I had no idea, at the time, if they were being literal or metaphorical...I could feel the concrete in that sentence. I could taste its grit.

Back then I used a different part of the day than I do now. Now I wake up just before the sun, and I'm in bed before anyone's opening monologue. Back then the night time fed me some kind of strange, lunar energy. It's when I was the most creative. It's when I got most of my best work done. Now? Now I'm afraid of the dark. I don't know if I mean that more literally or metaphorically, either, but both are true.

It was 2:47 a.m.. I was about to take a sip from my second cup of coffee when my laptop chimed with an email alert. Maybe the chime sounded different than usual. I don't know why I set down my mug without taking that sip, but I did.

It wasn't unusual for me to get emails in the middle of the night. My producer never stayed up that late, but she's a worrier. She would often wake up from a dead sleep with something she forgot to tell me that day. A phone call would invite conversation, so she would just send an email and go back to sleep. Fans of my podcast would also write in at any and all hours. This email just felt different. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't now. But I set down my coffee cup without taking that sip.

I love what I do. I've done it for a long time, and I've made a good living at it. I've worked my ass off to build a reputation for putting truth above all else. I want you to listen to my podcasts. I want you to buy whatever the advertisers in my show are trying to sell you so that I can continue working. I want you to read this book, but, at the end of the day, all I care about is the truth.

Truth is beautiful in its simplicity. It's not about right or wrong. It's about facts. It's about what actually happened. It's not subjective. It's binary. It's ones and zeros. That's the most appealing characteristic of truth. There are infinite untruths about any given event, but there is only one, actual truth. My job, as a journalist, is to scrape and grind away anything that is not that truth.

I consider it a noble trade, but not everyone feels this way. For every champion of truth there are a thousand people hellbent on burying or corrupting it. Crooked cops. Dirty lawyers. Pervert uncles. Fake news. All politicians. I'm not talking about rounding up on your height or rounding down on your weight. I'm not the morality police. We all do shit like that. I deal with murders – those who cover up bodies and those who cover up the crimes surrounding them.

It's not much of an overstatement to say that a lot of people who spend significant time listening to true crime podcasts tend to swim in the deeper end of the neurotic pool if you know what I mean. They tend to ramble. They will tell ten rabbit-trailing stories just to make one point. They feel the need to paint the entire picture just so there is no confusing their final intent. It can be maddening to listen to them at times. They are exhaustive and exhausting, and they look for meaning where there probably isn't any. I say probably because I am one of these people, and I know that the Devil is in the details. It doesn't mean that every detail is the Devil, but it is where he lives. All that to say that we tend to ramble. By the look of this email, they did not seem to be one of us.

From: [e-mail]

Subject: DAVID PLEASE READ

I know who killed those people in Madison, TN. I need

your help to prove it. Can't go to the police yet. No one

listens. But when you live under a bridge you know a

murderer when you see one.

How many times do you hear the line: He seemed like a perfectly normal guy? Killers aren't mustache-twisting, beady-eyed villains like in the movies. They aren't surrounded by ponytailed-henchmen, and they don't have three heads and fangs and goat eyes. They shop at your grocery store. They have kids who go to the same school as yours. They ride the same subway you do. They are your neighbor who mowed your grass that time you took your family to Florida. It's easier for us to label them as monsters than it is to admit that we have no idea how to spot them at a distance. But there's probably a killer reading this very book. They might even be reading this very sentence at the same moment you are. They are you. They are me. They are us.

So how was this person so certain that he could identify the killer? Hell, I couldn't even be certain that it was a he. Maybe it was a woman. I couldn't rule that out. Did he...or she...witness the murders? If so, why did he...or she...fuck it...why did they not go to the police? Why were they reaching out to an investigative journalist whom they'd never met? And more importantly to me, personally: why did this email clutch me with such gravity?

We get tons of people who come out of the woodwork claiming they have evidence or insight or hunches or leads into cases we are investigating and many that we're not but should be. We do read them all because we've already established where the Devil lives, but most are fruitless. I wish I could say that I sniffed out this lead because I'm some super sleuth. But it wasn't me. It was them. It was that line about the bridge, and I needed to know more.

I'd have to substantiate their basic claims before I would even dream of establishing further contact. A quick internet search verified recent murders in Madison, Tennessee. Details were understandably sparse concerning the nature of the crimes, though.

The first was 29-year-old Jonathan Dixon. He was found in the woods behind Legends Tavern just under three weeks ago. Not a lot written about this one. Subsequent reports declared that the death was being treated as a homicide.

The second victim was 46-year-old Dennis Mills two weeks later. Dennis was found beaten to death in the driveway of his home there in Madison. Police seemed to be treating it as a mugging-gone-wrong, however.

There was no mention of any connection whatsoever with the Jonathan Dixon case. Do they know something that the police don't? So many questions and thoughts rifled through my head. Maybe they'd mistyped in haste. Maybe they meant that they knew who killed one of the people. I kept pulling up the email and compulsively rereading it. There were so few details in the message; it seemed unlikely that they'd make a mistake in only five sentences. Then again, I had absolutely no fucking clue who this person was. Just that they were asking for my help. But why me?

I compiled a series of lists: tools that would help cash in some of these questions for answers. Lists help me. They always have. I've literally made lists about lists that I need to make the next day. Lists are stressful to people who aren't prone to compiling them. They tend to feel confined by lists. They often get defiant against being told what to do which defeats the purpose of the damn list. But, for people like me, they encourage focus which actually frees my mind to work harder in much more efficient ways.

Lists also allow me to delegate, and delegate I did. I emailed my slumbering producer, Sarah, asking her to use our DMV and background check connections to find what she could about the two victims. I also forwarded the mysterious email in hopes that she could paint a bigger picture of what might have been going on down there in Madison.

Can't go to the police yet. No one listens. Were they saying that they couldn't go to the police because they don't listen to them, or were they telling me not to go to the police yet because no one listens to anyone? All those fucking pronouns were making me dizzy, but I had to maintain an open perspective on who this person might be. I decided that they must've been speaking on their own behalf because I didn't have anything I could go to the police with anyway. Not yet. And, in case you've never heard my podcasts, I don't always hold the highest of opinions for law enforcement. Especially at the small-town, local level where there is very little accountability. If they were always reliable and diligent, then I would be without a job. While I do love what I do...I'd rather write about baseball and let the cops risk their lives solving murders. But, until that day comes, I'll just leave SportsCenter on in the background while I sleep.

The remainder of my cup of coffee had grown cold. It was getting late, and I had a lot of digging to do in the morning. I emptied the old filter and grounds, added a couple of extra scoops to the hopper and set the pot to brew much earlier than usual...earlier than usual for those days, at least.

Chapter 2

THE SHIT

Iwoke up in a sweaty panic. Ever since I was a kid I've had this recurring nightmare. I use that word because I don't know what else to call it. But it's not your typical nightmare of monsters or car crashes. It's like a visual panic attack. It's as if there is this massive, red ball right in front of me, and there is a number assigned to the size of the ball: 0-100. The bigger the number the bigger the ball. 27 might be the size of a basketball. 64 might be the size of a dresser. And the ball is always right in front of my face. If I turn then it moves with me. Eyes open or closed it stayed growing in front of me.

When I was a kid I would even wake up, turn on the lights and run to the bathroom, but the ball would still be there and growing in size and number. 78! I splash water on my face. 85! I scream in the mirror that I'm having a nightmare. 88!

My mother runs from her room and grabs me by the shoulders, David, what's happening?!

92!

It won't stop, Mom! I scream!

What won't stop?!

94!

I can't breathe! It won't stop!

The massive ball has displaced almost all of the air in the tiny bathroom. I can't fucking breathe!

Honey, it's just a dream. It's ok. It's ok, she says while wiping the water from my tiny face.

I know it's a dream, but I'm awake, and it won't stop! I was hyperventilating now.

97!

She would take my face in her hands and pull me closer than the impending red ball. I could see tears in her own eyes. Seeing her child in pain was my mother's own waking nightmare.

Sssshhhhhhh...it's ok. David? It's ok, honey. It's not real. Look at me. Look at me, honey. It's not real. Ok? Sssshhhhhh.

She was a good mom. Scared shitless for her crazy child experiencing a terror invisible to her. She felt powerless. Even as I write these words I feel both sorry for and grateful for her. But eventually I would either calm down or I would just short-circuit and pass out. I honestly didn't know what would happen if it ever hit 100.

The morning after the email, I snapped awake to a solid 70. I haven't lived with my mother for twenty years, though, so I've learned to navigate these attacks on my own. I usually have to fight my way outside and lay down in the relative expansiveness of my tiny front yard.

I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and repeated to myself, It's not real, David. It's not real. It's just a dream. It'll pass.

I hadn't had one of these attacks in years. I don't know why that email upset me so much, but it did. I felt deeply stirred. So stirred, in fact, that I didn't even realize until I stood up in the middle of my yard that I was in my underwear...and my poor neighbor had silently witnessed the whole thing.

Morning, Bryan, I said as I walked briskly back inside.

My coffee was already brewed, so I got dressed, poured a cup in my shiny to-go mug and headed to the office.

When I got there, Sarah was already at her desk.

Working in an office with only one other person, me, she could easily get away with wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, but she doesn't. Sarah always looks like she's about to walk into a boardroom with Elon Musk. It's nice to work with someone who dresses for success. She wouldn't know the feeling because I usually dress as if I just came from a Fantasy Football Draft party.

What's the matter with you? she asked as if she had been the one to see me semi-naked on my front lawn.

You'll have to be more specific today, I said with shrugged eyebrows.

A.) you look like shit; B.) you're never here this early, and C.) what's with the weirdo email in the middle of the night? she listed off.

A.) I had a rough morning; B.) my entire body is fully aware that I'm never here this early, and C.) that email fucked me up, too.

Not their email...yours! We get emails from wackos eight days a week. There's absolutely zero evidence or even a name to this one! And you expect me to put aside the mountain of work I already have to chase leads from some psycho hillbilly in bumble fuck Tennessee? Sarah asks with both hands in the air.

So did you find anything? I asked from behind my coffee mug.

Of course I did! Wanna know why? she asked rhetorically.

Cuz you're the shit?

Cuz I'm the shit, she echoed immediately.

Sarah picked up two folders from her desk and carried them over to the table in the middle of the office. I sat in the chair, and she sat on the tabletop.

Opening the first file and setting it in front of me, Victim number one: Jonathan Dixon. He goes by JD in the streets.

The streets of Madison, Tennessee? I joked.

Yes, David. Drink your coffee and don't talk, she said.

I raised my cup, and Sarah continued, 29-years-old. Born and raised there in Madison, and, by all accounts, he'd only left once.

Once? I asked.

She turned the page to his arrest record. Six months in County. Lucky kid considering he had four arrests including public intox, DUI, possession with intent to sell, armed robbery, assault, and only did six months in jail.

What about family?

Not much to speak of, she said. His mother died a few years back. Can't find anything about his father. Has an older half-brother serving life for murder.

I started thumbing through his file, Doesn't seem like too big of a stretch to imagine how someone like this ended up dead in the woods behind a bar. What about the other one?

Sarah opened the other folder, Dennis Mills. 46-years-old. Originally from North Vernon, Indiana. Graduated from IU with a degree in finance. Married his college sweetheart: Maggi. They have two kids. Both grown and live out of state now. He was a manager at a local accounting firm. His wife owns a small greenhouse there in town.

His file was less than half of what JD's was.

No arrest record? I asked.

Nothing. Spotless. No speeding tickets or anything.

Find out anything about the murder scene?

She shook her head, Found dead behind his car in his own driveway.

That's all I could find, too, I said disappointedly. What about the email?

What about the email? she asked without even trying to hide her frustration. We don't even know a name or anything!

What about the email address?

She offered up an exasperated shrug.

I took a drink of coffee in an attempt