Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder

stills. In August 1964, he and his wife, Pauline, were ambushed and she was shot fatally. Buford lived almost exactly seven more years, his face scarred by the bullets that killed Pauline. Immortalized in the Walking Tall films by actor Joe Don Baker, Pusser died at thirty-seven as he lived, in a highly suspicious auto crash. His legend hasn’t faded and his life is still honored.
    Icons and folktales he left behind still attract tourists.
    Long after Pusser’s term in office, McNairy County has been tarnished by rumors of corruption, and Sheriff Tommy Riley was convicted in October 2005 of “facilitation of jail escape,” but avoided a verdict of “official misconduct.” One of the women in the county jail became pregnant after alleged intimate encounters with a jailer. Riley was charged with helping expedite her escape so that she could have an abortion. Through judicial diversion, Riley kept his job and avoided a three-to-six-year jail term. He was sentenced instead to three years of supervised probation.
    District Attorney Elizabeth Rice demanded that he be ousted from office, however, citing “bad judgment” on the part of the presiding judge.
    Most of Selmer and McNairy County is home to far more ordinary people who respect the law. Cotton, soybeans, corn, wheat, and hay grow in the fields that surround Selmer, and many farmers also raise horses, cows, and hogs. Loggers cut down trees and deliver them to sawmills. Scrap metal is the other main industry for the men of Selmer, and there are junkyards piled high with crushed cars and worn-out appliances awaiting transformation.
    And then there are preachers and others at the two dozen churches in town. Located near the center of the Bible Belt, Selmer has needed its churches: the forty-five-hundred residents in Selmer might well wonder what kind of unlucky star has crossed over their town in the past decade and a half. Devastating tornadoes have touched down in Selmer, wreaking millions of dollars in damage and taking lives.
    In 2007, dark shadows continued to hover over Selmer. NASCAR racing is a tremendously popular sport in the South, and, along with an estimated forty to sixty thousand other fans, Selmer residents were looking forward to the annual Cars for Kids Show, on the weekend of June 16 and 17. It was a huge draw in this small town, and usually raised at least $200,000 for charities that benefit children. The parade was a hit on Saturday, but a modified drag race at 6 P.M. on Mulberry Avenue, a city street without barriers to hold the crowd back or protect them, ended in disaster. It was intended to be a controlled burnout—the race car’s rear tires spin until they blow out, while the brakes are on for the front wheels. The stunt generally produces clouds of dark smoke, thrilling crowds.
    Something went horribly wrong, however, with this burn out. The car fishtailed into a light pole, and then plunged into the crowd, killing six young spectators, aged fifteen to twenty-two. Two of the dead were sisters. Twenty-three others were injured as the race car cut a swath through the crowd, trapping those who couldn’t run fast enough.
    All of Selmer wept, and on Sunday night a crowd gathered at the Sonic Drive-In on Mulberry Avenue to mourn the young victims. One of the teenage girls who was killed had been at work there just before the demonstration, leaving cheerfully to stand close to the road and watch the black smoke roil.
    Many people wrote to the Jackson Sun, placing blame on the sport, the fatal driver, the police, and even on the heedless spectators.
    A few lumped this tragedy in with the Winkler case, wondering what in the world Selmer was coming to.
    In actuality, there were no similarities between an ill-thought-out drag race and the shocking death of one of Selmer’s most admired citizens. Still, people tended to ask why so much that was dark and deadly descended on a little town in Tennessee.
    Both the dragster horror and the Winkler story made headlines all across America, causing complete strangers to ask the same thing.
     
    It was the first day of spring 2006 when the marriage of the Reverend Matthew Winkler and his wife, Mary Carol, teetered on the edge of catastrophe. The day was clear and somewhat cool, and daffodils and tulips in bloom were buffeted by the wind. Trees were just budding out, but their branches were essentially bare. In another few weeks it would be full spring, and the azaleas, irises, lilies, and crape myrtles