Cop and Call A Novel_When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds
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COP AND CALL A NOVEL
When you call for help don’t be surprised at who responds
Book 2 in the Asheville Cop series.
R. SCOTT LUNSFORD
Copyright © 2018 R. Scott Lunsford
All rights reserved.
ISBN 10: 1978092644
ISBN 13: 9781978092648
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Design: mad-moth BookCovers.com
Editing, review, and creative assistance Taryn Aldrich Tarynaldrich.com
FREE RANGE PRESS
MARS HILL N.C. USA
DEDICATION
In memory of 22-year-old North Carolina State Trooper George C. Penn. He gave his life to protect the Citizens of North Carolina. Murdered Sunday, Aug. 22, 1937 in Asheville NC by the very real and evil William “Bill” Payne.
The real Floyd McGee, driver of the Asheville Police “Paddy” wagon in 1910, victim of the rage of his “friend” James B. Allison.
And all the victims of these two very real and evil men from N.C.’s history
“The battle line between good and evil runs through the heart of every man.”
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to everyone who supported and helped. Robin my patient wife. Alfred, friend, reader, critic, and corrector. Taryn Aldridge, EEditresse, and creative consultant/fixer. All the Cops I have known and learned from over the years. A small part of each is found in Bishop and his peers.
Once more the very real Joshua P. Warren. Researcher, talk show host, author, TV Producer and skills to numerable to name. Thank you for allowing me to borrow your persona again. For more information check out Mr. Warren’s web sites below.
www.speakingofstrange.com
www.JoshuaPWarren.com
This is a work of fiction. Several of the incidents may be similar to actual events. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Resemblance to actual persons, living, dead and undead, or actual events is coincidental or the results of the authors imagination and creative process. If the story interests you and your curious about the real events, I invite you to investigate for yourself.
R. Scott Lunsford
Scottlunsfordauthor.com
“Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.”
Lord Byron
What readers are saying about Book 1 in the Asheville Cop series.
Cop and Coin a Novel (1)
ISBN-13: 978-1537046891
ISBN-10: 1537046896
Fascinating Topic and Well Written!
Well written story about a couple of old coins that go through different hands from the 1800’s through today. The shekels seem to carry an evil curse and a promise of youthfulness which tempts people who have the lack of right and honesty. I have always found folktales of the mountains of North Carolina fascinating since my roots come from the area. This is a blend of folktales and believable truths woven into the story continuing through each adventure. It kept my interest throughout the book.
Difficult to stop reading
The combination of history and fiction, at least I think it was fiction, made for a good story. Made me wonder what was fiction or could have been fact.
This was a very good book. Fast paced and hard to put down
Being an Asheville native, it was neat to see all of the local stuff used. I am looking forward to his next book.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1 THE CHEROKEE’S CURSE
CHAPTER 2 N.C. WESTERN FRONTIER. THE NEXT MORNING
CHAPTER 3 BUNCOMBE CO. JAIL, ASHEVILLE NC 1910
CHAPTER 4 HIGH POINT NORTH CAROLINA
CHAPTER 5 MOUNTAIN COVE NEAR FLAG POND TENNESSEE 1988
CHAPTER 6 FRIENDS ON BOTH SIDES
CHAPTER 7 ASHEVILLE, THE “CASTLE”
CHAPTER 8 THE CASTLE, DISPATCHING CENTER
CHAPTER 9 OFFICE OF THE ASHEVILLE CHIEF OF POLICE
CHAPTER 10 A CANADIAN FEINT
CHAPTER 11 LIEUTENANT NORTH’S OFFICE
CHAPTER 12 2 MONTHS AFTER THE SHOOTING
CHAPTER 13 WEST ASHEVILLE, EIGHT MONTHS AFTER SHOOTING INCIDENT
CHAPTER 14 THE ASHEVILLE SCHOOL CEMETERY
CHAPTER 15 WEST ASHEVILLE
CHAPTER 16 PISGAH VIEW APARTMENTS
CHAPTER 17 HOMINY CREEK PARK, BUNCOMBE COUNTY THE NEXT DAY
CHAPTER 18 ASHEVILLE PD, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT
CHAPTER 19 THE CASTLE
CHAPTER 20 ASHFORD WAY CRIME SCENE
CHAPTER 21 BUNCOMBE COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER 22 ASHTON CRIME SCENE
CHAPTER 23 WEST ASHEVILLE, JOHNSON BLVD
CHAPTER 24 HAZEL MILL ROAD, WEST ASHEVILLE
CHAPTER 25 RETURN TO HAZEL MILL ROAD
CHAPTER 26 INTERSTATE 26, RUSH HOUR
CHAPTER 27 INTERSECTION OF SWANNANOA RIVER AND THE FRENCH BROAD
CHAPTER 28 CHARLOTTE STREET, NORTH ASHEVILLE
CHAPTER 29 ASHEVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL
CHAPTER 30 HAPPY HILL RESTAURANT, PATTON AVENUE
CHAPTER 31 THE RAVEN’S GLASS PUB
CHAPTER 32 GRANNY’S HOUSE
CHAPTER 33 LEXINGTON AVENUE
CHAPTER 34 7 ELIZABETH PLACE
CHAPTER 35 FLINT STREET
CHAPTER 36 HAYWOOD ROAD COFFEE SHOP, WEST ASHEVILLE
CHAPTER 37 ASHEVILLE HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETIC FIELD
CHAPTER 38 GRANNY’S HOUSE, HILL STREET
CHAPTER 39 ASHEVILLE PD CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION OFFICE
CHAPTER 39 NEWBRIDGE APARTMENTS, TOWN OF WOODFIN
CHAPTER 40 DOWNTOWN ASHEVILLE
CHAPTER 41 PATTON AVENUE
CHAPTER 42 THE RAVEN’S GLASS PUB
CHAPTER 43 MONDAY MORNING, ASHEVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2 THE MEDITERRANEAN RESTAURANT COLLEGE ST ASHEVILLE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1 THE DEVIL DOG
CHAPTER 1
THE CHEROKEE’S CURSE
An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is a curse in a dead man’s eye!
—The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 1797
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The N.C. Western Frontier 1776
It was his birthday, yet Joseph Ball knew there would be no celebration of his 15th year. Living to the age of 15 was no small feat in those days. Joseph was aware there were far more important things going on around him in the wilderness—including, staying alive.
Although he was young, Joseph was all too familiar with the pure exhilaration and gut-twisting fear that accompanied battle. He was one of General Griffith Rutherford’s 2,400 North Carolina militia soldiers who had assembled in September and October 1776 to do battle with the Cherokee. The modern reader would be incredulous to learn that Joseph was not the youngest member of the expedition. A soldier’s age was never a deciding factor in enlistment in centuries past; rather, his ability to hold a rifle, fire it, reload, and follow his s
uperiors’ commands took precedence.
On this day, General Rutherford and his men crossed the Blue Ridge mountains at Swannanoa Gap before marching down the Swannanoa River, two miles from its mouth, to cross a shallow that would come to be known as the War Ford. Passing the French Broad River, they proceeded up Hominy Creek, the Big Pigeon and Tuckaseigee Rivers, and then moved forward over the mountains into the valley of the Tennessee River near where Franklin, NC stands today. There, the militia confronted and destroyed three Native American villages. The General and his militia then advanced through the mountains to the settlements on the Valley River at and beyond the present town of Andrews, continuing to plunder the Cherokee all the way. Finally, once his mission was deemed complete, General Rutherford retraced his route and crossed the Blue Ridge to return home with a mere loss of two men. One a young boy the other an old man.
Six miles west of Asheville, NC runs a sulfur spring, nearby which is a series of unusual horseshoe-like bends in Hominy Creek. It was on one of these peninsulas where Joseph found himself spending his 15th birthday in September of 1776. The spring is neglected today, but curious travelers can still access it by way of a concrete shelter originally intended to encase it during west Asheville’s manufacturing boom. In the days before the Civil War, one of the most famous hotels in the South was found there, known for many years as Deaver’s Springs. The locale was frequented in the summer by hundreds of Southerners who traveled from near and far to enjoy a reprieve at what was thought to be a health-renewing spa nestled amongst idyllic scenery with impeccable cuisine.
In Joseph’s time, however, the area was little more than a sprawling camp site where troops hunkered down for a brief rest from their travels. Joseph and his peers were often tasked with fetching firewood to keep the men somewhat warm at night. This was precisely what he was doing on this autumn afternoon, except his job was about to take an unusual turn. As the young boy entered the camp with an armload of dry deadwood, he was hailed by an older man wearing a long white beard and a fur hat. “Boy, bring that stack o’ wood here,” he commanded.
Joseph took a step back against the dusty earth and nearly stumbled. “No, sir,” he sputtered. “Mr. Lafferty done told me to take this here armload to him.”
The man neglected to look up from his work, simply saying, “And I just told you to bring it here.” Glancing briefly in the direction in which Joseph had been marching, he continued, “If Lafferty had his way, he’d be the only one in this here camp with firewood at all.”
Joseph made his way reluctantly over to the man. The weight of the wood pulled him forward, and he nearly toppled over with it as he dumped it beside the small pile of scraps to which the man was busily tending. Somewhat unnerved by the elder’s silence, Joseph hung back to watch the old man at work. A large white cloth was spread out before him, tattered and mottled with splotches of mud. In the center of the blanket sat a mound of yellow powder, flanked by a stack of buckeye nuts. Another handful of nuts rested beside the coals of the man’s meager fire, over which swung a tarnished cast iron pot barely large enough to hold soup for two. Joseph noticed tendrils of steam curling up from the cauldron’s mouth. Whatever it held was at a rolling boil. A clutch of green leaves and stems poked out from the rim of the pot, and tangles of what appeared to be the same vegetation sat nearby the fire.
Joseph wrinkled his nose and probed tentatively, “You making a soup, sir?”
The man had retrieved a mortar and pestle from a sack set behind him. “Poison,” he replied pointedly. And then nothing more.
Joseph squinted at the pot, even more inquisitive than he had been a moment ago. “Well, what for?”
“Wolves.”
He knew of what the old man spoke. The camp sentinels had been dealing with a pack of wolves that had been boldly entering the area at night, helping themselves to whatever food they could find. They had even made off with a whole smoked ham a few nights earlier. Extra guards posted at the camp’s perimeter had been unsuccessful in deterring the four-legged prowlers. A couple of the men even suggested that the animals were in fact disguised Cherokee attempting to foil their progress. General Rutherford dismissed this thought as nonsense. He had assured the troops several times that the camp’s location was well hidden, and they would catch the Cherokee by complete surprise when they attacked.
Joseph decided the boss wouldn’t notice if he didn’t return for a few minutes longer. The lad wouldn’t be satisfied with the man’s cryptic answers until he figured out exactly what was going on. Brushing off his jacket, he squatted down next to him. “What type of poison are ya makin’? And how is you gonna poison the wolves with it?”
Peering out from under the rim of his fur cap, the old man realized he would not be able to tie up his chore until he satisfied the boy’s curiosity. He also figured he might as well put the kid to work assisting him. Perhaps he could finish the task faster. He rose from his crouched position with a groan in time with his cracking knees. “Here, boy, you work on grinding up these here buckeye nuts and I’ll tell ya what to do with ‘em.”
“Yes, sir.” Joseph watched as the old man took a long steel knife from the worn leather sheath on his belt and raked more of the buckeye nuts from the edge of the fire towards the boy. Joseph used a stick from the wood pile to move the roasted nuts closer.
The old man stirred the pot with another twig. “Boy, you ever seen Indians fishin’?”
“No, sir, is it different?”
“Depends,” the man reasoned, “on how many fish they be needin’. If they’re gathering up food for the winter or a big meal for a lot of ‘em, they use a fish poison. They take and dry and grind up buckeye nuts. Then throw that there powder you’re makin’ on a still pool of water. The poison makes it so the fish can’t breathe and they come to the surface. The Indians scoop ‘em right up.” He glanced over at Joseph. “You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Joseph answered, intent on grinding the roasted yellow meat off the nuts. “Sir, what about the pot?”
Looking up, the old man continued, “That’s Jack-in-the-pulpit plant. In the spring its flowers look like a preacher in church givin’ a sermon. You seen it before?”
“Yes, sir, I help my ma hunt them in the spring. She told me they was medicine.”
“Your ma be right, boy; the roots can be made into medicine. The leaves and stalks have a poison in them. The Indians chop them up and put ‘em in food and leave it out for animals to eat. The poison kills the beast but leaves the meat good. The inner parts—the heart, liver, and the like—go bad, as the poison’ll stay in those parts.”
“Is that how you’re gonna kill the wolves? Put poison food out for ‘em?”
Shaking his head, the man pointed with the stick at the soldiers spread out all around the camp site. “No, some fool would eat it and get killed. I’ll put it in one of the creeks that runs into the main stream there.” He stabbed toward Caney Branch, which formed the peninsula upon which the camp sat. “I found wolf tracks there at one of the pools where the wolves been drinkin’. That’s where we’re gonna poison them with both of these.”
“You need to use both?” Joseph inquired, looking up from his grinding chore.
“We’ve gots to make sure we don’t have to worry ‘bout them wolves. I suspect on our way back home we’ll be staying right here again. So, I wanna be positive they’re gone.”
After an hour’s work, Joseph had crafted quite the nice pile of pale yellow dust while the old man boiled the Jack-in-the-pulpit into a concentrated liquid. The two took the results of their labor and left the camp, wrapping the ground nuts up in the white cloth. The poison juice was transferred from the cast iron pot into a clay jug and corked tight. Then the back-country chemists proceeded to the creek to complete their plan.
A short jaunt through barbed greenery brought the pair to the still pool the old man had mentioned earlier. He emptied the clay jug into the water and instructed Joseph to toss the yellow buckeye powder over its surfa
ce. The dusted reflection called to mind woodland streams covered with yellow pine pollen in the spring. He saw for himself the wolf prints in the soft sand by the water’s edge. The old man’s mission would likely be successful after all, if the number of tracks Joseph spotted were any indication.
As they trudged back toward the encampment, the man raised the clay jug high above his head before striking it down upon a tall rock. The force shattered the pot and sent shards splaying across the fertile ground. Joseph leapt at the sound. “What’d ya do that for?”
“That jug is ruined now. Don’t want anyone to use it and get poisoned from it. We’re gonna burn that cloth you’re carryin’, too, once we get back. Goes straight on the fire.”
“What about the iron pot?” Joseph asked. He knew those were hard to come by on the frontier; he couldn’t imagine doing away with it.
“You’re gonna boil water in that pot several times over, then you’ll fill it with hot coals and burn it ‘til it glows. That’ll scorch the poison right off the iron and make it good for food and water again.”
Joseph began following his new orders once they returned to the campsite. Little did he know that he would become the elderly man’s second set of hands for the rest of his days.
CHAPTER 2
N.C. WESTERN FRONTIER. THE NEXT MORNING
Though General Rutherford was sure his soldiers’ approach was undetected, he was quite wrong. Overlooking the large camp of white men, several sets of eyes kept watch on their activities. The Cherokee had been apprised of General Rutherford’s campaign and its objectives before the General had even passed the Swannanoa Gap. Sentries were stationed to observe his progress and keep the tribal elders informed of his every step. Three young warriors were lurking in the proximity of the encampment to watch the incursion and funnel their discoveries back to the villages of the Cherokee.
Three young men, all of whom were around the same age as Joseph, composed the watch overlooking the camp near the sulfur spring. Their names were lost to history save for that of one warrior: Chee-sq one wasui-ah. While secretly inspecting Rutherford’s camp from close-up, Chee-sq one wasui-ah stole a quick sip from the newly infected stream. The poison didn’t take long to leech into his system. On his way, back to meet up with his comrades, he fell ill. Fatigue and sickness sapped his energy until he could no longer walk. The young warrior propped himself against a tree facing the direction of his fellow watchers. He hoped they may catch sight of him in distress and come to help. Chee-sq one wasui-ah also knew his position would shield him from the onslaught of white men.