Cop and Call A Novel_When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds

by R. Scott Lunsford

ASHEVILLE, THE “CASTLE”

  Sherry Ahearn, the Asheville PD’s communications supervisor, glanced at the clock on the wall. They were late. Not surprising, she thought. They were coming from the police station downtown; that place was a time suck. Moving the dispatch unit to the building that housed the rest of the county’s emergency management communication had made things much easier. She wished that other divisions in the police department would consider moving out of the old 1920s building. The fact that the Departments Command offices were there was one of the main reasons the building seemed to suck the time and life out of anyone who entered the building.

  As she was musing against the backdrop of her colleagues’ keyboards clicking, Lieutenant Preston, who presided over personnel support and training for the PD, appeared at the door. Sherry signaled to a coworker that she would be stepping out for a few minutes and met Preston at the back of the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he offered with a shake of his hand. “Had a last-minute situation.” There was a younger man standing alongside him. “Of course, you remember Bill Carson. You sat on his employment interview panel.”

  “Yes, we’ve been expecting you,” Sherry replied. She peered sideways at Preston. “Actually, I was expecting two new hires.”

  Preston cleared his throat. “Yeah, we need to talk about that privately.”

  Sherry scanned the room and noticed that one of her dispatchers, Margaret, was settling in after lunch and hadn’t yet connected her headset. Sherry met her at her desk. “Margaret, this is one of our new recruits, Bill Carson,” she explained. “Please let him observe you while I have a quick chat with Lieutenant Preston in my office.”

  Margaret agreed readily, and Sherry led Preston back to her cubbyhole. “So,” she said after closing the door, “what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, but the Albright kid who was supposed to start with Carson quit,” Preston said with a shrug.

  “Quit? I thought you had everything set. Your e-mail said I would have two dispatcher trainees starting today.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m already way short on personnel. All my people are working overtime.”

  “Yes, I know. I know it takes time to train new hires and get them certified. But we had a problem today.”

  “What problem? Did he fail the background check? I thought everything was done—the screening, the drug test, the polygraph.”

  “Everything was finished. But we ran into another problem.” Preston stabbed a finger toward the clock. “Hence why I’m late. The kid showed up on time and parked in the lower lot at the station. Captain Connard met him halfway to the building and pointed out the lot was for police employees only. So, Albright flashed his temp. ID, but I guess he’s a member of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. It had come up in his pre-hire interviews that he was a history buff. He had descendants on both sides of the Civil War.”

  “And?” Sherry pressed.

  “Well, Connard went off when he saw the confederate flag on Albright’s license plate. Said he couldn’t be hired if he was a member of a subversive organization. And then—” Preston dragged his hand over his face and chuckled wryly. “Connard called the poor kid a Klansman.”

  Sherry gasped. “He didn’t!”

  “According to Albright, he did. Connard ordered him to his office and Albright basically told him to go screw himself.”

  “What the hell! Connard can do some stupid stuff, but this is over the line.” Ahern had been working for the City Police Department many years. Longer than Connard had been employed with the department. Everyone had been surprised at the rapid rise in rank Peter Connard had made. Ahern recalled that while in training several of his field training officers or FTOs had recommended that he be terminated while he was in the probationary period of his hiring. Connard had a temper and a tendency to make bad decisions in the field. Unexplained pressure from City Hall and individuals of influence had trashed the termination process. How and why was still a mystery. He had made a lot of mistakes in his career, some that had negative impacts on pending court cases. Ahern had been amazed at each of Connard’s promotions. Connard had taken the earlier attempts to terminate him personal. He faulted several individual’s real or imagined, who he thought during his carrier were sabotaging his objectives. He spent a lot of effort in trying to get payback or revenge on the individuals he thought had done him wrong.

  Preston nodded. “He’s been blowing up my phone ever since. I don’t know what to tell you. I called Albright already, but he said there’s no way he’s taking the job anymore. He’s pretty pissed about the whole thing.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. I guess I’ll get Carson set up and assign him to Margaret for training. One rookie dispatcher is better than none.”

  The dispatch speaker on Sherry’s desk crackled suddenly. “Any unit close to Haywood Street downtown, shots fired. 53 Haywood Street. We’re receiving multiple calls.” A pause. “Reports of at least two shooters firing at each other across the street.”

  Several patrol units replied that they were en route. The dispatch room was suddenly abuzz with energy as Sherry Ahern and Preston emerged from her office. “Severa

  One call advising subjects injured inside 53 Haywood Street. EMS crews will stage at Pritchard Park.” Margret broadcasted.

  Preston grabbed his keys from the spring steel clip on his belt and shot Sherry an apologetic look over his shoulder. “I gotta go.”

  Sherry took a seat at a nearby empty dispatch station and quickly found herself fielding a call from a local news station. The tenacity with which reporters sought breaking crime information never ceased to amaze her, but she delivered the PD’s party line: “I can’t confirm anything at this time. We will release information as it becomes available. Please contact the Police Information Officer for further details.”

  Officer Douglas Sherman was monitoring the drum circle in Pritchard Park. The drummers standing in the circular brick amphitheater courtyard, while others stood in rows on the worn gray concrete steps. At times hundreds of memorized and excited onlookers will make up the circle. No one person will start or lead the group. Sherman thought it interesting that with no one organizer for the group, the beat and rhythm came together as one without any planning. The crowd and drummers will feel the momentum of the beat and shortly the drummers are together in the same rhythm. The wooded courtyard fills with belly dancers, hula-hoopers and other dancers keeping the rhythm with movement, sticks or any other impromptu instrument adding to the symphony of sounds and accompanying visuals of dance. The young and more seasoned sharing their moves with the observers. In between the thunderous rhythm, Sherman thought he heard the familiar crack of a gunshot not too far in the distance. The concrete downtown reverberated like an echo chamber, making it difficult to tell from where the sudden noise had originated

  In between the thunderous rhythm, Sherman thought he heard the familiar crack of a gunshot not too far in the distance. The concrete downtown reverberated like an echo chamber, making it difficult to tell from where the sudden noise had originated. Then he heard five more, —crack! -crack! -crack! -crack! -crack! — in rapid succession. As he broke into a north bound jog, a herd of people came barreling through the park from the opposite direction. Sherman was not especially coordinated but managed to weave through the crowd to hone in on the source of the sound. A block from the park he neared a looming red brick building down the street from the green, he spotted someone standing with an outstretched arm, clutching a large silver revolver. Mostly visible was the subject’s arm and the long-barreled silver revolver. The person stood at the entrance to an alley way pointing the weapon across the street

  Just as Sherman was prepared to pursue, he heard his partner, Lisa Roberts, holler from somewhere close by, “Drop the gun, get on the ground, roll over! Don’t move!”

  A quick glance across the street in her direction revealed that she was crouched, partially hidden by a car, with her pistol drawn, pointed at someone on the ground�
�not at the figure obscured by the building. Seeing another officer arrive to back up Roberts, Sherman set off toward the alley where he had observed the arm holding the pistol. Concerned that the originally seen hand and pistol was going to be taking aim at his partner, he burst around the corner in a low crouch. The shooter no longer stood where he or she had moments before. The beat officer found nothing in the alley aside from piles of trash and a carpet of discarded clothing near the chain-link fence at the far end. He sent a call out on his radio updating his location and what he had seen. Receiving word that a Buncombe County k-9 unit was close and would be on its way to him. Sherman was told by his Sergeant to meet back on Haywood Street at the alley entrance. The place where he last saw the hand holding the pistol.

  He took in the scene once he arrived back at the point he was going to start the k9 track of the suspect once dog and handler arrived. In the brief time, he had been in pursuit of the suspect, a swath of EMTs and additional police officers had arrived. Several medical personnel were tending to the injured victims inside a nearby store, and there was a general sense of panic about as the scene was lined off with yellow crime scene tape and cops were directing passersby away from the mayhem.

  Emerging from behind the parked car once she saw backup officers had arrived, Officer Roberts surrendered her arrestee, Oliver Griffin to another officer to be whisked away to headquarters for questioning. The forensic team had descended upon the scene in the meantime, photographing the silver Jennings 9mm handgun found on the sidewalk and the spent brass shell casings strewn nearby. She was no longer needed here. Instead, Roberts sprinted down the street toward the store where some of the shots had been fired into to see if she could help. Stopping and looking in the store window the tall female officer found EMTs administering CPR to a small girl on a gurney who was quickly whisked past her then hoisted into the back of an ambulance as Roberts hurried past.

  A second ambulance pulled up in front of the shop, and a group of EMTs rolled another gurney straight into the storefront. Roberts shoulder length blond hair was kept up when she was working. The sudden rush of activity, running and arresting one of the gunmen had caused some of her hair to be in disarray. Small strings of the soft blond hair having escaped from where she had secured it. She continued to absently mindedly keep putting the strands behind her right ear. Continuing her observation through the broken front glass window a young boy was splayed out on the floor, a few feet away the shattered windowpane glass crusted the cement foundation. A pool of blood haloed his head. Roberts’ stomach turned in on itself as she realized he was likely beyond help. The second gurney was not for him, but for another victim—an older girl—crumpled nearby. As the girl was loaded onto the stretcher and wheeled toward the open shop doors, Roberts caught sight of a Florian Cross tattoo on the arm of the man tending to her. He must have been one of their own, a first responder, most likely fire personnel. The Florian Cross or Cross of Saint Florian was a traditional symbol of firemen and found on the Asheville Fire Departments uniform patch and trucks. Roberts could not place him. The man’s face was streaked with tears and his voice trembled as he reassured the girl over and over that she would be all right. Roberts was shocked out of her concentration as Lieutenant North, who supervised the Investigation Division, sidled up to her.

  “Good job catching one of the shooters, Roberts,” he said as he watched the ambulance pull away from the curb.

  Roberts released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Will they be OK?” She nodded toward the empty space where the ambulances had stood.

  “Hope so. We’re waiting on the medical examiner for the boy.”

  Roberts glanced sideways at the child laying prone on the floor and shuddered. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Who was the man leaving with that girl? He looked familiar.”

  “He’s the girl’s uncle and guardian also this boy’s father. Works out of Station 3.”

  Back at the dispatch center, Margaret, Sherry, and their colleagues were swamped. Margaret’s console was lit up like a combination of a Christmas tree and the 4th of July. Sherry couldn’t help but laugh to herself at the look of awe on her new trainee’s face. The new trainee dispatcher Bill Carson, caught a look from Margaret, his new trainer and remarked, “It’s like a game of six-dimensional chess just trying to keep up.”

  Margaret chuckled. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but I guess it is.”

  Another call came in. “Unit 6 dispatch,” was heard over the radio monitors and head phones they wore.

  Knowing that Unit 6 was Detective Lieutenant North, Margaret acknowledge saying “Lieutenant go ahead”

  “Dispatch, Contact Unit 150 and have him call my cell.” The Lieutenant said.

  Sherry called over to Margret the other communicator, “I’ll take care of that.” She knew if Lieutenant North was looking for Unit 150, Sgt. Bishop, the head of the department’s School Resource Unit, there had to be kids involved somehow.

  Sgt. Bishop knew a lot of people. Almost everyone in Asheville it sometimes seemed. He had a reputation that encouraged people to trust him. Over the years in his job, he’d always been fair to everyone. Always treating them with respect, no matter who they were. Working for the Asheville Police Department for over 31 years, mostly with the kids of Asheville in one way or another, as a patrolman, a detective, then a school resource officer. His knowledge and contacts have assisted in investigations of all types. Sherry Ahern was Native American Cherokee and felt a kinship of a sort with Bishop. She knew Bishop’s family’s linage of being Melungeon. The Melungeon people were found in the Appalachian Mountains before European settlers showed up. Where they came from is a mystery. Some claim they were descendants from shipwrecked Portuguese sailors from or before Columbus’ arrival. Possibly, families left behind when the Spanish explorer and Conqueror, Desoto came through the mountains looking for gold. Others link them to the lost colony on Roanoke Island and Sir Walter Raleigh, or possible stranded Phoenician explorers who arrived way ahead of Columbus. The true facts where they were found living in the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina when French fur trappers came through the mountains in the early 1600s. They weren’t thought of as white, Indian or Black. Referred to today as tri-racial. They were known as healers, root doctors, blood stoppers… even witches. Sherry always thought that was one of the reasons Bishop had a history of working the weird and strange investigations that turned up in the city. His point of view that people with unusual ideas and ways can be crime victims too and need to be treated with respect. He’s been their contact with the legal system for many years.

  Bishop quickly returned Sherry’s call, by way of Lieutenant North, within a few minutes. He’d been coaching a peewee soccer game in the small town of Weaverville, north of the city, and had nary a clue what was going on. Two of his students had passed, he learned. He knew he would have to try to get ahold of the school superintendent as soon as possible to set up counseling services for students and staff on Monday. He offered to assist with the investigation, but North advised him not to. Bishop’s kids didn’t appear to be or connected to the shooters; they’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Back at the scene, North stood by as Dr. Baumgartner, the medical examiner prepared the slain boy’s body to be taken to Winston-Salem for an autopsy. His phone beckoned from his pocket. It was Detective Sgt. Dillingham, who had been coordinating the search for the remaining shooters. North cleared his throat and swiped the screen to answer. “What’ve ya got, Sarge?”

  “Nothing yet. We tried two different dog tracks. We found a gun and a jacket, which may be the shooter’s, but no confirmation yet. Might have a positive ID on that person, too. You might wanna come down to Lawyer Gerald Scott’s office on Battery Park and look at some security footage before forensics starts to download it.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as the medical examiner releases the body to be moved.”

  “I’ll have Officer Sher
man meet you on the street and bring you over to Scott’s office.”

  North tucked his phone back into his shirt and hollered to a nearby plain clothed Detective. “Mike, grab someone and start a canvas of the street. Find me any outside security footage of the shooting. Check every business along Haywood.”

  “Yes, sir,” Detective Weaver replied.

  North had already seen the store’s security footage, which showed the three children walking across the shop, presumably heading toward the front exit before being downed by an unseen shooter. It was surreal to watch the trio collapse to the floor nearly simultaneously; the video had neither sound nor color. Leaving the store on foot he walked to Battery Park to locate Officer Sherman. He replayed the grainy reel of store camera footage in his mind’s eye as he waited for Officer Sherman, who ducked around the corner a mere second later. A staunch German Shepherd followed in his wake on a leash the other end controlled by a Buncombe County K-9 Officer. “Hey, Sherman,” North greeted briskly, bending down to give the following hound a firm pat on its head. “Have you guys got anything?”

  “Yes, sir,” The County k-9 Officer began, coiling some of the leash slack around his wrist. “While doing the dog track, we located a blue jacket. It’d been tossed on a bunch of trash and blankets at the front of the alley where the guy Sherman saw run down the alley. The dog seemed to be on point—he went straight to some planters outside an apartment back door. We found a Smith & Wesson 357 revolver wrapped in a plastic bag in the mulch. Your forensics is on the way to collect and process it. One of your people is standing by for them to arrive. The dog lost the track on Patton Ave. Guy must’ve had a ride near there.

  Asheville Officer Sherman added “I ran into Gerald Scott the lawyer, and he said he had his own security footage, of the alley too. He’s actually outfitted the alleyway with two cameras because that’s where his office is, and he’s had some issues with graffiti.”