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

by R. Scott Lunsford

  “Yes Sgt. I wanted to see if the new officer had qualified and would be ready for Monday morning.”

  Surprised, at the caller he answered, “yes sir, I didn’t recognize your number on the phone.”

  “Yes, I had to borrow a phone. Mine died on me” was Connard’s answer. “I’m having issues with my duty weapon. The Glock keeps stove piping spent shells. Was wondering if you had a moment to look at it.

  Surprised at the strange request. Agreeing to examine Connard’s pistol for not ejecting the spent shells. He could only reply, “yes sir, I’m still at the range in Madison County right now though.”

  “That’s okay. I can be there in a few minutes. I had a meeting today with the Madison County Sheriff and I’m not far from there range right now.”

  With that Connard hung up the phone leaving Blaylock puzzled about the conversation.

  Quicker than Blaylock would’ve thought possible. Connard was pulling up his vehicle next to Blaylock’s on the firing range. In a few moments the two were standing on the firing line. Connard drew his weapon then fired downrange towards the target. Discharging the weapon, the metallic cartridge case had jammed in the pistols slide. The pistol could not fire without clearing the jam.

  Blaylock watched Connard clear the pistol jam. “Could be bad ammo, improper grip, or the gun itself. Spring or the slide.”

  Connard fired another shot getting the same results. He re-holstered after clearing the jam. Connard asked Blaylock, “can I try your pistol to see if it’s my grip. If you watch we can remove that issue right away, if that’s not the problem.”

  The Sgt. un-holstered his Glock 9 mm pistol and handed it grip first to Connard without hesitation. The acting chief took the pistol. He confirmed a round in the chamber then aimed the pistol downrange at the silhouette target. Holding on the target a second Connard pivoted at his waist left, pulling the trigger at the same time. Shooting Sgt. Blaylock in the temple at close range. Blaylock crumpled to the ground. A trickle of blood running from the 9-mm hole in his temple.

  Taking a cotton rag from his pants pocket Connard wiped the pistol down. Using the cloth to hold the weapon after he was through. He bent down and placed the Glock semiauto pistol into Blaylock’s limp hand. Using the cloth, Connard removed a small pint bottle of whiskey from another pocket. Opening the bottle, he poured part of it out then sprinkled some on Blaylock’s body. Using Blaylock’s left hand, he pressed the Sgt.’s fingers against the glass bottle. Bending over again Connard picked up the two spent shells from his pistol and placed them in his pocket. Walking to Blaylock’s car he placed the bottle on the hood. Taking a pistol magazine out of his left pocket he exchanged it for the one in his pistol. He looked at the removed magazine of blanks before placing it into his pocket. He smiled.

  Connard stood and examined the scene. Peter Connard thought of himself as an educated person. Having completed the Federal Bureau of Investigations National Academy. Also obtaining his Master’s Degree on line.

  Connard was familiar with mental health issues. Hearing voices no one else did was quite common. Usually auditory hallucinations presented themselves as actual sounds. The person is usually surprised that no one else hears them.

  Another issue street cops dealt with often were individuals with intrusive thoughts. Defined as unwelcome involuntary thoughts that are upsetting or distressing. The thoughts and images of an inappropriate nature to the person experiencing them.

  Connard knew he was not insane. The voice he heard in his mind did not come from the surrounding environment. He knew others did not hear it. It wasn’t a sound to be heard. If you called it a thought it was not involuntary, upsetting or inappropriate to him. The voice reminded him of conversations he used to have with his cousin growing up. He welcomed the conversations in his head. Having someone or something who understood him was a pleasant change.

  “Well done Peter, and without my help too.”

  Smiling to himself Connard thought “can’t let things stand in the way of our plans. Jimmy had some issues several years ago. A suicide is not out of the question. If it was, a backwater county and law enforcement won’t get very far on an investigation.”

  Opening his car door Connard slid behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he drove away from the firing range. While the voice in his head cautioned him.

  “Don’t underestimate the backwater Peter. History has shown that to be the downfall of many. I do believe we are on a journey toward some remarkable things.” A strange laughter filled Connard’s mind and the interior of the car. Connard smiled and began humming an opera he had never heard before.

  Bonus

  A New Book

  By R. Scott Lunsford

  Charon, Coffee and a Story

  A collection of short stories by Lunsford and friends connected by story teller, Charon the ferryman of Greek Mythology

  Available in 2018

  CHAPTER 1

  Charon: In Greek mythology, Charon or Kharon (/ˈkɛərɒn/ or /ˈkɛərən/; Greek Χάρων) the ferryman of Hades. He carries the souls of newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead for a fair.

  Wally’s Bar Lexington Avenue Asheville NC

  Every community has one, some more than others. I first met him in the mid-1980s. After graduating from Western Carolina University, I sought out my God given destiny, I was a writer. That’s what I wanted to do in life and was going to do. I went out into the universe to meet my destiny head on with big plans to conquer. Luckily for me my destiny also included my father teaching me drywalling and framing. While waiting for destiny to catch up with me I did not starve. After a few years, I found myself back in Asheville, North Carolina. One third partner in dad’s construction business. When dad passed, my brother and I carried the family business on. I did not toss destiny into the dumpster entirely. I continued writing, selling some of my work, and with the Internet developing into a new universe I incorporated a web design company with dad’s business. It all became very profitable for my brother and me.

  Oh, excuse me, I digress, we were discussing him.

  I saw him the first time in Wally’s bar. A rather rough establishment on Lexington Avenue near the Interstate. I went to Wally’s looking for local color and characters that would give me writing ideas. He stood out from everyone else in the establishment that day. Yet for the life of me I could not figure out why, other than the fact that he appeared to be drinking coffee and not alcohol. He was somewhat taller than I and obviously muscular. You could tell he wasn’t a desk worker, the only desk workers, you might find in Wally’s Bar would be a used car salesman.

  He was clean-shaven, even to the top of his head, bald with a leather like skin. He had on worn yet pressed blue jeans, boots that were not the cowboy type, but that was possibly the best way to describe them, and a clean button up shirt. In a brief look, you would have thought that he had changed after work before heading out to wind down at the bar.

  To me, he looked like someone with a story or the idea for one.

  I asked Wally for a beer and turned to look for my target, only to see his back as he walked out the door. Taking a sip of cheap beer, I put it on the bar saying to Wally “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Wally normally would not allow this sort of behavior, but knew I was good for it. That and the fact our company was doing some water damage reconstruction work in the back of his business.

  Stepping outside into the vicious bright light of the sun and looking about, I found my subject standing 20 feet south of Wally’s front door. He stood looking across Lexington Avenue to what was referred to in those days as the Old Farmer’s Market. Mainly because it had been the location of the old Farmer’s market in the 50s, yea, not a lot of imagination floating around at that time.

  My mistake was in following my targets gaze, to see what was so interesting. Across the street an Asheville Police Patrol car was in the lot. Back door open, one of the Lexington
Ave. regulars was being patted down and handcuffed by one of Chief Hensley’s young boys in blue. Also in the scene of the small unfolding drama, was a new character in play. One the officer appeared to not be aware of.

  Another of Asheville’s regular alcoholic nomads from downtown was coming up quickly behind the officer whose attention was on his quarry. The new edition to the scene was holding a 4-foot-long length of pipe that he appeared was going to use on the officer. I recognized the pipe wielding subject as a regular in the area known as Fred. Then things happened simultaneously and quickly.

  I yelled out “hey!”

  The gentleman I was trying to catch up with yelled out “Look out Officer!”

  Then, another player entered the stage. An older fellow, also a downtown regular named Albert. He ran into the scene, grabbing Fred by his leather belt at the back and jerked him up off the ground. The pipe weapon ringing as it struck the concrete lot. Albert continued walking towards the officer carrying Fred by his belt like he was a suitcase carried by its handle.

  I looked southwards to share a laugh with the gentleman I was attempting to catch up with, only to see him way farther down Lexington Avenue continuing to walk south on the sidewalk.

  Putting the thoughts of a possible interesting story from this gentleman aside, I decided to go with the bird in the hand and walked across Lexington Avenue to make sure the officer was okay and that he was aware that the mentally challenged Albert had saved him.

  After doing, so I went back to Wally’s only to find someone had drank my beer. Wally made me pay for it and a fresh one.

  Quizzing Wally about his patron, he advised, “yeah, he’s been coming in for years. Holds his age well, must work out or something. He’s got a strange name. A girl’s name, Chere, Sherry, something like that. He’s not an alcohol drinker either, only coffee. He does a lot of listening to people and can tell a hell of a good story. I thought once he was some sort writer like you. I asked him, he said no, he was in the transportation business.”

  After being overcharged and shortchanged by Wally, I decided that at some point. I would get up with this guy and maybe swap some stories. Perhaps something good to pedal down the road to an interested editor.

  I continued off and on to see the gentleman for some time. One fall day walking downtown after settling some title and tax work at the courthouse for my brother and me. I chanced to see the gentleman walking towards me on the sidewalk. Same pressed pants, same boots and an Oxford shirt.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE MEDITERRANEAN RESTAURANT COLLEGE ST ASHEVILLE

  “Not everyone has coins, but everyone has a story.”

  Charon

  I stopped him and introduced myself, as we were in front of the Mediterranean Greek restaurant I offered to buy him coffee. I told him of the time I had attempted to speak with him on Lexington avenue and he smiled at the mention of Albert’s name. Saying that Albert was a good man who really did not ask much from life and gave quite a bit back.

  He then told me a story, the first of many I am happy to say, of another time Albert had saved the life of an Asheville Police Officer.

  There were once several years ago two men who had decided to make their living by robbery and stealing. Not brave enough to face an upright victim they chose to target the homeless and alcohol inclined residents of downtown. They were able to get away with their thievery for several months as this type of victims were not of the nature to file police reports and many not even aware that they had been robbed, unconscious when they were victimized. Not being satisfied with the pennies and quarters received from their victims the two started physically abusing their victims. Severely injured and obviously beaten individuals showing up in the emergency room and being found on the street, got the attention of Law Enforcement.

  Regular channels of investigation were not fruitful and extra patrols of the areas around the incidents did not turn up the suspects. It was decided to use an undercover officer impersonating the ideal victim to set a trap for the suspects. Several days of staggering and pretending to be an alcoholic street person did not lead to the suspects capture right away. On the third night of the undercover operation the undercover officer was in a make-believe stupor and observed by back up officers from a distance. That night the suspects struck.

  When poking their grounded victim caused no response the two started through the undercover officer’s pockets. With back up officers swooping down to make an arrest a large white blur came from nowhere and snatched the pretend victim up and holding the officer like a big puppy Albert ran down the street, taking his new charge to safety.

  The backup and uniformed officers arriving just seconds after Albert absconded with their partner. The two robbers were placed under arrest while other officers attempted to catch up with Albert. Two blocks latter they were able to stop Albert. Taking his responsibility serious Albert refused to turn his cargo over to anyone except a uniformed officer. Albert seeing the uniform finely gave the undercover officer still fringing unconsciousness to the uniformed officers.

  The Officer not knowing exactly what had occurred had his revolver in his right hand under his jacket while pretending to be passed out. Being snatched up by Albert and unable to move his right-hand due to Albert’s tight grip and holding him close, the officer thought it best to remain quiet until he could figure out exactly what was going on or his back up arrived.

  Learning about the robberies and assaults Albert had taken it on himself to watch out for the street people and it turned out had snatched several possible victims from the hands of the two robbers.

  Albert never found out it was an officer he had saved, but he never wanted for something to eat at the downtown Hot Dog King Restaurant, where Albert had a tab taken care of by Asheville Street Officers up until he passed away.

  After the Albert story, being my turn for some reason I found myself opening to this just met stranger and telling him my life story. Saying I usually wasn’t so talkative with individuals I just met, he responded.

  “Happens all the time. I like to listen, and people seem to know this and feel comfortable talking.”

  Excepting this explanation, I formally introduced myself and held out my hand saying, “Gary Cook.”

  Excepting the hand shake he replied “Charon”

  Waiting for a last name, I asked.

  “Sharon?”

  “No, simply, Charon.”

  “Ok, “like the Styx Ferryman”

  “Yes, exactly like the Ferryman” he said smiling at me in a most unusual way.

  I recalled Wally telling me he thought the guy was in Transportation of some sort and he had a girl’s name. Going along with the joke, or at least so I thought, I continued, “You’re the Ferryman over the river of death to Hades?”

  Still smiling he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s a job.”

  Not knowing if he was trying to pull some sort of joke or if he was simply crazy, I continued to listen. I had found in Asheville crazy usually meant an interesting story. I have taken some of those stories and built them into interesting tales and sold a few of them over the years. Letting him continue, I listened, making mental notes to myself for later reference.

  “Many come without coin payment, yet they still have to cross the river.” “Really it’s more of a traffic control issue. You can’t have traffic flow backed up on one side of the river. Balance, is important.”

  I nodded, adding “Yea, that makes sense.”

  “Not everyone has coins but, everyone has a story.”

  “There is also the issue that if they are telling a story while they cross, there’s less complaining.”

  “Complaining?” I asked, wanting the self-named Charon to continue.

  “Oh yes there is always complaining. The rich say they are entitled to better. The poor are sad in missing their friends. The warrior is relived in completion of a job and an end to killing. The old are tired and ready for what is to come. The politician wants to make a
deal and the Attorneys, don’t get me started on the lawyers. You’ve heard the term, special a place in hell? Believe me the ride there with an attorney is no picnic either.”

  Thinking I hit the mother lode of weirdness we continued to talk for several hours. Inquiring as to the possibility of more conversations in the future. Mr. Sharon thought for a minute, smiled and said. “You know, I think I would enjoy that. My work at times leaves me little pleasure, and you would be cheaper than a therapist.

  A collection of ground rules was established that I had to agree to. Only he could tell people who he was. No metaphysical questions. No notetaking, finally don’t look for him. He would find me when he wanted to talk.

  I thought it best to go along. I didn’t want this well of weirdness to dry up. I thought, almost any day, his family would probably have him committed for his own safety.

  Writing down the stories later and using they was okay. I could even mention him in writing, as no one would believe he was real anyway, just a plot tool to tell or sell stories.

  With the agreement made a long friendship begun. As I write this I’m not saying my friend really is Charon the ferryman over the river Styx. Then again, I’m not saying he isn’t.

  As time passed, Charon introduce me to others in Asheville who knew of his alleged identity. A Police Officer, a lady Sheriff, a local radio personality and the owner of a local bar, in who’s establishment we often met.

  I never asked the others how they came to know Charon and if they believed he was who he said he was. The truth of his identity did not really matter to the group, only the shared stories and conversations.

  The Police Sergeant in our group summed it up well. “If you look deep enough into a diamond. You can always find a flaw. If you stand back and take in the overall stone. You can see its beauty. Sometimes it’s more enjoyable to not to look too hard.”