“He’s a little old for your crowd, isn’t he?” I asked.
Monte Tatum was a Pensacola rich boy—a fortysomething hipster wannabe who was a few years older than me. During his twenties and early thirties he bounced around from job to job until his dad died, leaving him a chain of dry cleaners in Escambia and Santa Rosa counties. To everyone’s surprise, he didn’t piss the money away.
Tatum bought out his sisters, cleaned up his act, and ran for District 4 seat on the Escambia County Commission and lost a tight race. The Insider had endorsed his opponent, which didn’t make Tatum a fan of mine. After the election he sold off the dry cleaning company and purchased The Green Olive, where it was rumored that he may have returned to his earlier ways.
Bree’s story wasn’t one I wanted to hear. I tried to only show empathy in my expression.
“I was already pretty drunk by then,” Bree said. “He’s pretty good-looking and was dressed professionally and smelled nice. And he had good manners, never too pushy or forward.”
Bree took another sip of her beer. She kept pulling back her bangs and playing with her bracelets. This wasn’t easy for her. This woman read F. Scott Fitzgerald, E. M. Forster, and Flannery O’Conner. She volunteered at the Pensacola Humane Society and took care of rescue dogs.
Bree continued, “Gradually my girlfriends began to peel off. I was left with Tatum who kept buying me drinks. I remember kissing him, but little else. I woke up the next morning in his bedroom.”
That son-of-bitch, Tatum, I thought. I had heard he had a way of breaking down women’s defenses by appearing to be a little dopey and harmless. He spent a great deal of money on his looks and clothing to pass as being younger than he was. He splurged on his dates by dining at Jackson’s and other expensive restaurants, but he was careful never to come on too strong at first.
When the women began to relax and settle into what they thought might be a nice relationship, he’d pounce. His conversation would get crude and sexual. His hands would be all over them.
If a woman was offended, Tatum backed off. He’d say she had either misunderstood his actions or he had misinterpreted her interest in him. The next day he would send her flowers, or maybe an expensive gift, but would cross the line again in a few days. The cycle of aggressive behavior would continue until the woman realized Tatum wasn’t capable of any meaningful long-term relationship. There was a reason the 48-year-old man had never been married. She would stop taking his calls. If she was lucky, he’d get bored with her and moved on to other targets. I had heard some dark stories about his “breakups” that had not ended smoothly.
Bree said, “I know, I know. I see it in your eyes. You think I was stupid to hang around Tatum and not just leave when my girlfriends disappeared.”
“Stupidity has nothing to do with this. I’m holding back my anger,” I said. “Do you think you were drugged?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But there’s a bigger problem than regretting a one-night stand or being taken advantage of by this nasty guy.”
“What?”
“I found evidence that morning that he’d videotaped us having sex. When I confronted him later, he even bragged about how good I looked in it,” she said. “I’ve begged and threatened him, and even offered to buy the damn video, but he refuses to destroy it, saying it’s part of his private conquest collection.”
I set down my beer and clenched my fists. I wanted to punch someone, something.
Bree continued, “If the video ends up on some sleazy website, I’m ruined. I can’t stop thinking about him and his buddies getting high and watching it every night.”
I stilled my temper and tried to reassure her. “The chances of your new employer finding out about this are slim. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She shook her head. “I can’t live having this over my head. Tatum’s cruel enough to send it to them.”
Bree was right. Tatum might not be the brightest candle on the cake—after all, it took him seven years to graduate from the University of Southern Mississippi where coloring was his major—but Tatum relished singling out people to harass and bedevil, and he was very good at it. He always had to have an enemy to defeat. He had spent thousands of dollars trying to discredit the man who beat him in the commission race. He had his bartenders create a blog that regularly attacked anyone Tatum believed had slighted him. I had been mentioned several times on the site.
Bree had reason to be concerned.
I said the only thing I could. “I will take care of it.”
“How? You’ve been on his enemies list before,” she asked. “What can you do?”
“I will find his pressure point.”
7
The next few days we tried to focus on our regular routines at the Insider, but Pensacola wasn’t going to let that happen.
The medical examiner, at the request of the state attorney, finished the autopsy and reported she had found that a combination of barbiturates and alcohol had killed Sue Hines. The deceased had been drinking heavily according to her husband and niece and had only recently started taking the Phenobarbital again, which had been prescribed for her epilepsy, to help her sleep.
Her husband said he had had trouble waking her before he went to the television station for his morning interview. After he left Sue had made it as far as the bathroom, where she collapsed and died of cardiogenic shock due to what the medical examiner determined was an accidental overdose.
Standing in his front yard, Bo spoke to the media that had camped out on his street. We watched the impromptu press conference that was streamed on the internet by the Herald. The Insider wasn’t a part of the media
