The pharmacists were looking for a gray-haired man in a brown shirt. That’s how he’d described himself a few minutes before, as he was pulling off the interstate. He’d just driven 165 miles west, through much of Tennessee — crisscrossing the crooks in the Caney Fork River, passing through the Cumberland Plateau’s mountain laurels and sandstone bluffs, whizzing past cows in lush springtime pastures — straight into the heart of Nashville.