The third problem, as the police had already learned, was that there was no sign of anyone named Johnny Clark. Wolf believed he lived somewhere near Opelika, Alabama. The locals found three men by that name in the area, but none came close to being considered suspects. The Alabama state police located forty-three more Johnny Clarks living in the state, and eliminated all of them as possible suspects. And, according to Wolf, the Rifleman was responsible for two other hits in Alabama, so the police there had their hands full. The phone number Wolf gave them for Clark had been disconnected three years earlier. It was tracked to a mobile home park in the village of Lanett, Alabama, and to a trailer that was no longer there. It had been registered to a woman named Irene Harris, who evidently disappeared with her trailer. She had not been found but they were still searching.
The state police and Jesse agreed it was safe to assume that a professional killer with a checkered past would move around and hide behind a number of aliases.
According to U.S. military records, twenty-seven men named Johnny Clark served in Vietnam; not a single one was dishonorably discharged. Two were killed in action.
The state police tried to investigate every angle of Wolf’s story. They did not doubt the gist of it—the nineteen contract killings. With the names of the victims in hand, it was easy enough to track down the cold cases in eight states. However, it was impossible to verify every detail Wolf gave them.
* * *
Jesse did not remember the three-hour drive back to Biloxi. His mind whirled with scenarios, strategies, questions, and few answers. Contract murder was a capital offense in the state, and the beauty of bringing Lance Malco, Nevin Noll, and others to trial for the killing of Dusty Cromwell would excite any prosecutor. They deserved death row, but putting them there seemed impossible. There were no witnesses to the killing and the crime scene yielded nothing. The high-caliber bullet that entered through Dusty’s right cheek and blew off the back of his head was never found. Thus, there were no ballistics, no weapon, no proof of any kind to show a jury.
At the office, Jesse briefed Egan Clement on the meeting in Jackson. There was relief in finally knowing who murdered Cromwell, though Lance had been the suspect from the beginning. The confirmation, though, was a hollow win because there was no clear path to an indictment.
They filed the information away, added memos to files that were much too thin, and waited for the next phone call from the state police. It came a month later and was a waste of time. There was nothing to report. The other eighteen investigations were sputtering along, most with about as much success as the Cromwell case. Wolf’s snitching had police in eight states chasing their tails with little to show for it. They were searching for skilled hit men who left cold trails. They were wading through the underworld, where they did not belong. They were trying to bring justice to victims who were also crooks. They were trying to follow cash money trails with no hope of success.
Another month passed, and another with no luck. But the digging caused gossip, and the gossip took on a life of its own. Rumors spread through the darkness and in countless bars and honky-tonks word was passed that Wolf had said too much before he passed.
* * *
For the past fifteen years, Nevin Noll had perfected the rules of engagement when a stranger came to a bar looking for him. Get the name, ask what the hell he wants, and tell him Mr. Noll is not in. He might be back tomorrow, or he might be out of town. Never meet with a man you know nothing about.
But the stranger was no stranger to the ways of crime bosses and was in a hurry anyway. On a napkin he wrote down the name “Bayard Wolf,” left it with the bartender, and said, “I’ll be back in one hour. Please impress upon Mr. Noll that this is an urgent matter.” He left without giving a name.
An hour later, Noll was on the beach, sitting at a picnic table and staring at the ocean. The stranger approached and stood five feet away. The two had never met, but they had met Wolf. The man with a grudge meets the man with a gun.
The stranger talked for two minutes, then left, walked back to the parking lot, and drove away. He told Noll that Bayard Wolf had told the cops everything before he died. They knew Malco ordered the contract and Noll handed over $20,000 to Wolf. They knew the Rifleman pulled the trigger.