I knew where I was – I just couldn’t remember how I got here or why.

My last conscious memory was opening the door of a phone booth and reaching for the phone.  I needed to call the police. I needed to report a murder.

Now I was lying on a hard metal bunk and staring at a concrete ceiling - the steel bars of a cell door only a few feet from my head.

Trying to make some sense of my predicament, I wondered how many others had laid on this bunk having similar thoughts. Closing my eyes I could almost see them – sitting alone and staring at the steel barrier and gray concrete that made up their new home. And even if I couldn’t see them, I could damn sure smell them.  Smell their sour body stench on the dirty blanket covering the equally dirty mattress I was lying on.

All jails have the same aroma – I should know, I’ve been in several. The abused mixture of bleach and detergent used on the bare walls and floors left a sickening smell that did little to cover lingering body orders, stale cigarette smoke and urine tracks left by its current and former inhabitants.

Straining to focus on the rest of my surroundings, I was surprised to discover that I wasn’t alone in my little chamber. Stretched out on an adjoining bunk was a man…an older man puffing on a cigarette and blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

Roused by my movement, he turned his rough, unshaven face in my direction. Long gray hair fell across dark eyes and he slowly brushed it away, avoiding his burning cigarette. My roommate didn’t speak, but did give me a rigid stare.  I suspect he was wondering why I was still dressed in street clothes. He wasn’t.

My new friend was wearing an orange jumpsuit and, although I couldn’t see it, I expected it had Shelby County Jail stenciled across the back. This meant he had already been booked, processed and waiting on a judge appearance for formal charging.

I, on the other hand, had obviously just arrived at my new home and those pleasant experiences were still ahead… lucky me.

“Carson Reno,” I said, offering a nod in his direction.

For a moment he said nothing and continued to stare while blowing smoke rings – which were now traveling in my direction.

Finally he lifted up and put his feet on the floor, crushed out the cigarette, leaned back against the concrete wall and spoke. “Mighty nice jail clothes you have there Mr. Reno.  Wan’na trade?”

“No thanks, I prefer these,” I said with a little attitude. “What’ve they got you locked up for?”

“Nothin’” he slurred, “I’m innocent.”

“Isn’t everybody,” I mumbled.

“What did you do? You’re sittin’ in here with your fancy pants and fancy shirt. Why ain’t you dressed like everybody else?”

“I have no idea,” I continued to mumble. “Wish I did.”

“Hey guard,” my roommate yelled at the cell door and to someone I couldn’t see.

Almost immediately a short fat guard wearing a blue police uniform appeared and spoke directly to my roommate. “Lester…I told you to keep your mouth shut and stop disturbing my work.  Either keep quiet or I’ll take those cigarettes away from you.  Understand?”

My roommate, Lester, grabbed at the cigarette pack in the upper pocket of his jumpsuit - reassuring himself that he still had control. Satisfied, he continued to speak to the guard.

“I just…I just want to know what this fancy dressed feller smellin’ of liquor is doing in my cell.  He says he has no idea.  I think he’s lying.”

The short fat guard looked at me while answering Lester’s question in a soft voice.

“He’s being charged with murder.”

~

Our story begins many hours earlier in my office at the Peabody Hotel – the office of Drake Detective Agency and Carson Reno – Private Investigator.