Who Shot The Sheriff?

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Three weeks before Christmas, he decided to send letters to only 38 sheriff's employees. Within days of the mailing, he met with some of them and decided to let eight stay on. Some friends noticed that Derwin had a lot on his mind, too distracted by the tasks ahead to act like himself. On Friday, Dec. 15, Brown finished a sheriff's training course an hour south in Forsyth. He invited his friends to drive down to watch his graduation. Over lunch, he announced he was having an impromptu celebration later that night at his favorite restaurant. They were all welcome to show up. The change of plans surprised Phyllis because she thought they were going to a county commissioner's Christmas party.

MVP's Interactive Video Cafe is not much to look at from the outside. It sits in a sprawling lot of a large strip mall anchored by K Mart and a Kroger supermarket. Inside, however, a mostly upscale African-American clientele drinks margaritas or Cognac and dines on $17.95 entrees of blackened pork chops, charbroiled salmon and barbecued ribs. On different nights, the restaurant features live jazz, comedy or karaoke. The restaurant had set aside its plushly decorated VIP room for the Brown party. At one point during the evening, the hostess took an odd telephone call from two women who asked whether they could come to the party without invitations. Phyllis and her son-in-law noticed a man rush to get a table near them as the party was breaking up and the band was about to play. He seemed almost creepy, sitting and staring until two more men joined him. About then, Teresa Hood showed up in her leopard-print pants. A county employee, aerobics teacher and part-time fashion model, she had worked on the campaign for a short time. But she had not been around too much lately. Phyllis had never thought much of her; nor did others on the campaign. As far as Phyllis knew, Hood had not been invited to the celebration; nor had she been invited to the graduation in Forsyth, but she attended it nevertheless. Phyllis watched as her husband and Hood found a booth away from the crowd. They appeared to be talking intently. Phyllis then asked a friend to drive her home and told Derwin she was feeling tired. "I'll see you in a few minutes," he replied. He was with Hood when the band asked him to sing. Others say he saw her to her car, but Hood says no. Whatever happened, he soon headed home himself. He would not see his wife again.

A task force of detectives from four agencies, including the FBI, has yet to solve the Derwin Brown mystery. "We're not ignoring the possibility that he was killed for some reason other than he was going to be sheriff," says the new interim sheriff, Tom Brown, who is not related to Derwin. "We don't want to get into the possibility of narrowing our investigation too much and missing something."

The police have talked to Hood, who has changed her phone and pager numbers several times recently, out of habit, she says, not because she is hiding. She says on that Friday night, Derwin Brown talked to her about handling his press. She says she does not understand why the Browns or others would suggest she knows more than she is telling. "How could I signal the killer? How do you do that? I don't know anything about killers," she says. She says she admired Derwin as well as his wife. And even though Hood was busy with charity work, caring for her sick mother and not active on Derwin's transition team, she says she called him often. "Hey, Coach," she'd say. "It's me. I'm checking in. Tell me what we need to do."

Interim sheriff Tom Brown and others confirm that the investigation is now focusing primarily on the jail's finances. Forensic auditors are examining contracts and other records related to the private companies servicing the jail, which, with 3,750 inmates, is one of the largest east of the Mississippi. Among the most scrutinized are the companies holding contracts to provide health care, maintenance and food service at the jail.

Investigators and auditors are also looking into the blatantly improper arrangements between the sheriff and seven bail-bonding companies that have been allowed to set up shop inside the jail without paying rent. State law prohibits bondsmen from having such access. Investigators are also looking for possible wrongdoing at three of the bonding companies, including one formerly owned by civil rights pioneer Hosea Williams. Apart from not paying rent, the companies may have been allowed by former sheriffs to operate without posting $150,000 cash or property bonds, contrary to jail policy. After being sworn in, Derwin planned to evict the bail bondsmen, which would have had deep financial consequences. A legit bonding company in DeKalb County can generate $40,000 a month. There may have been other ways to boost income. Already, auditors are trying to account for $400,000 in bond forfeitures that are missing, overdue or otherwise not collected. This supposedly was the topic of conversation between Derwin Brown and the county official (clerk of court Jeanette Rozier) when the man in the Ford Expedition was watching them during the runoff election. Other bondsmen in town say they can find no record in the clerk's office of as many as 150 criminal cases in which they hold bonds. The companies are required to file quarterly reports listing the status of all bonded cases. "They were just not there, no docketing, no nothing, no record they ever existed," says the owner of a bonding company not targeted in the investigation. By not being forced to pay the full bonds of defendants who don't appear in court, the companies could benefit by keeping the money.