by Ed Robinson
Hearing, seeing, and smelling at elevated levels made sleep difficult. I was there on the ground, hidden by weeds and trees, but haunted by what my senses perceived. What most people would consider silence was to me a cacophony of noise. I tried to count the different odors that reached my nose. I gave up at three dozen. At least darkness dimmed my vision. Finally, fatigue overtook me and I was able to block out the noise. In spite of my uncomfortable accommodations, I slept deeply.
Deep sleep brings on dreams. I had a history of profound dreams at times like this. After my wife’s death, I saw her in my sleep. I could never reach her. My helplessness haunted me for a long time. I dreamt about a man I had beaten to death for a long time too. I always saw myself from above, flailing away at my opponent even after he stopped moving. It took years to shake my regret. On my last mission, I joined a team of experienced operators to rig the floodgates on Lake Okeechobee in order to flood the sugar cane fields. Just before we pulled it off, I had a dream where the small towns below the lake flooded badly. Thousands of people were drowning because of what I’d done. Then I was there in my boat, picking up victims. There were too many of them and the boat was swamped. That dream forced me to make changes to our plan of attack, in order to ensure the safety of those people.
I don’t take vivid dreams lightly.
Eight
That night on the mountain I dreamt of staring down the barrel of a rifle. I couldn’t see the face of the man aiming at me. A wisp of smoke left the weapon and the bullet raced towards me. Everything went black. I was lost in the darkness. I had no sense of myself. It was nothingness.
I was awake but it was still black. Low clouds obscured the moon. No light penetrated my den where I was bedded down. I was spooked by how the darkness in the dream morphed into real darkness. I lay still and composed myself. I had other senses to rely on. At first, I heard nothing, but gradually the sound of the creek became clear. I sniffed the air for the scent of any predators. I was okay. Nothing had found my hiding place. I sat up and poked my head out of the canopy. There was a faint ambient light after all. I focused on a tree until I gained my night vision.
I drank some water and nibbled on a piece of jerky, feeling more comfortable with my surroundings. It was just a dream. In the real world, I owned this mountain. I was the darkness and the light. I would decide who could trespass. It would not be some yokel deer hunter who’d kill a man for fifty pot plants.
I came out of the brush to stretch and relieve myself. I decided that each time I had to piss I’d pick a different tree. I’d mark my territory around the crime scene. I spent some time fiddling with the camera and checking my weapon. I ate a power bar. At the first hint of light, I set up in a good spot to surveil the plants. I was meticulous with my concealment, but I needed a good line of sight for the camera too. I went through the motions of picture taking to get a good feel for the light and the backdrop. That would change throughout the day, but if he came soon, I was ready for him.
I went over to the west side and went down a few hundred feet. I saw no one coming up. I heard nothing out of the ordinary. I’d just have to wait. I spent a few minutes reimagining the shot, trying to guess which trees to investigate for a bullet. It seemed hopeless. I poked around gently for a few hours. The plants needed water badly. The leather buckets were still where Pop had hidden them. Just after mid-morning, I took up my concealed position again.
It took two more hours of patiently waiting, but I heard a man climbing the other side of the hill. He was being cautious, but my superior hearing picked up on his errant footsteps. I could differentiate the slight noise he made from the natural sounds of the forest. I didn’t smell him until he crested the hill. He smelled of soap and freshly laundered clothing. He was wearing camo hunting clothes, but no orange vest. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was carrying a five-gallon bucket. For a moment he almost disappeared. He’d stopped and crouched down at the edge of the clearing, just inside the tree line. He remained still, making sure no one else was around. I knew he had to cross open territory before he reached the big rocks. I was ready with the camera. I got two full-body shots of the man while he was in the open. He knelt behind the boulder where I assumed he’d taken the shot. I focused on the space just above it. As soon as he poked his head out, I captured his face. He spent less than a minute there. He was confident that the coast was clear. I watched him stand and stroll casually towards the center of the pot patch. He unslung the rifle and propped it against a tree. I got a good close-up photo of it. He went to the creek and filled his bucket. He dumped the whole thing on the first plant he came to. Most of it ran off on the dry ground.
At this rate, he’d have to make fifty trips. Five gallons of water weighed roughly forty pounds. It would be a good workout for him. Meanwhile, he was tracking up the soil with his boots, leaving good evidence. Suddenly, he stopped mid-pour. He put the bucket down and stood up. He walked over to where Pop’s body should have been. How could he have overlooked a missing dead man? Maybe he assumed a bear had dragged it off at first, but now he could see that there was no blood stain. The spot had been swept clean. He turned in a circle surveying the surrounding trees and rocks. I got several clear shots of his face as he stood there.
He obviously didn’t know what to make of this development. He took his hat off and scratched his head. He kicked the dirt around, maybe looking for dried blood. Any decent deer hunter had to also be a tracker. Even a well-placed shot may not kill his quarry immediately. Big bucks have been known to cover quite a bit of ground before finally succumbing to their injury. He continued poking the dirt with his feet, moving around the site. He was baffled. He shrugged and went back to his bucket. Then he changed his mind and went for his rifle. He slung it back over his shoulder, making his travels with the bucket more difficult.
I had all the pictures that I needed. I concentrated on remaining invisible, while he worked. When he was at the creek with his back to me, I stowed the camera and undid the strap holding my pistol in its holster. I hoped I didn’t need it, but the dream was a warning. The way I was dressed and hidden would let him know exactly what I was up to. There’d be no excuses made for what I was doing. It seemed like hours had passed before he was satisfied that the plants were all watered. He started to leave but stopped behind his big rock. He put down the bucket and the rifle. I watched him snap off a thin, low branch with plenty of leaves. He came back and started erasing his boot prints. I figured I could find some of his tracks on the way down the hill after he was gone, but the easy evidence was no more.
I got a real good look at him then. He was young, thirty at the most. His hair was close-cropped, almost a flattop and blond. He was fit but not like the type who works out daily. He was toned, not bulky. He was light on his feet and agile. If he thought someone might be watching, he had no discipline about it. He was careful when he first arrived, but he’d forgotten all that. He had a tough edge about him, though, like he’d seen his share of fights. I considered how I’d handle him if we came to blows. I’d seen my share of fights too, but my prime days were behind me. I usually depended on surprise to take out a bigger man. I certainly didn’t stand toe to toe and let someone half my age take shots at me.
It wasn’t that long ago when a true bear of a man had beat the snot out of me. I’d let my guard down and he’d been the one to surprise me. I had no chance. I wanted to avoid repeating that experience at all costs. I’d come up here to the mountains to rest and recuperate. This young hunter had spoiled my convalescence and disturbed my peace. I figured he ought to pay for that, but I hoped to give him the bill without violence. Eventually, Pop’s death would have to be avenged. If the legal system couldn’t accomplish that, I would.
Finally, he was satisfied with his efforts. He backed away from the plants, sweeping away his prints as he went. When he reached the rocks he took up his weapon and bucket and retreated down the mountain. I didn’t move for another hour. I listened, frozen in my surveillance po
sition. When I was certain he was long gone I came out of hiding. I followed his path until I found the first boot print. I took a picture and continued a little further. Every fifteen or twenty yards he left a print in the dry earth between rocks and logs. I snapped more pictures before turning around and heading back to my side of the mountain. I couldn’t go down through the hunting camp. My enemy might be down there having a beer after his hard day’s work.
I was happy with my progress. My pictures would tell the story. This man had diligently watered his crop. He’d snooped around in the dirt, where a body had once lain. He’d covered up his own footprints, surely a sign of guilt. It looked every bit as I hoped it would. If it got to court he’d be screwed, at least for the marijuana operation. The murder would be something else. I needed that bullet. There’d be no further looking for it that day. I had to get down the hill and home to Brody. I had to get my evidence to the Sheriff. I had to get a hot shower and a good meal.
I almost ran down the hill on the way home. I was starving for one thing, but I was excited for what I’d captured on camera. We would soon know who the killer was. Someone would identify the guy. No matter how inept or unconcerned local law enforcement was, they’d be forced to take action. I’d done what I could do to honor my friend.
Brody was waiting outside the back door with her arms crossed like she knew my arrival was imminent.
“I hope you haven’t been standing here for the last two days,” I said.
“I didn’t figure you’d spend two nights up there,” she said. “It’s almost dark, time for you to come home.”
“But the streetlights aren’t on yet, mom,” I said.
“Don’t mom me,” she replied. “Get in there and get cleaned up.”
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” I said. “And lots of pictures of our suspect.”
“So you’re done up there?”
“Well, I’d like to find the bullet if I can,” I said. “He watered the plants today. Likely won’t be back soon.”
“We go to the Sheriff first,” she said. “If you’re going back up there, I’m going with you. I can cover you while you search.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “I knew I could count on you.”
“You got us into this,” she reminded me. “The least I can do is help get us out of it.”
The Watauga County Sheriff’s Department was on Hodges Gap Road, not far from Appalachian State University in Boone. It was adjacent to the Detention Center. When we arrived we discovered that the Sheriff himself wasn’t available. We explained to the Deputy what we wanted to do. He set up Brody with a computer to download my photos. A few were blurry and not useful, but most were crisp enough to clearly identify the man on the mountain. The Deputy didn’t know him. He assured us that he would make sure the Sheriff saw the pictures, as soon as he returned. There was nothing else we could do, so we left. We’d have to wait on the Sheriff.
I thought some more about the man. Our cabin and property were in Watauga County, but very close to the Avery County line. Banner Elk was much closer than Boone but had no Sheriff’s Department. The closest one was all the way down in Newland. We needed someone in law enforcement that knew our suspect. I decided to drive to the Banner Elk Police Department. We had to go through the whole story with the chief before he would even look at the pictures. He didn’t want to step on the neighboring county’s toes. He made it clear that his department would not participate in any investigation outside of its jurisdiction, which was within the town limits of Banner Elk only.
“If this guy is from Banner Elk or nearby, there’s a chance no one in Boone will know who he is,” I said. “If you know him, you can pass on his identity to the Sheriff.”
“This alleged crime took place in Watauga County, right?” he said.
“And the guy may live in Watauga,” I said. “But he may be known to the locals in Banner Elk. We’re much closer to town down here than going to Boone.”
“I’ll take a look,” he said. “But I can’t discuss this further with you unless Sheriff Watts gives me the okay.”
“You won’t tell me who it is?”
“No sir, I will not,” he said. “This is a police matter.”
“But I’m the one solving the crime,” I said. “A murder no less.”
“I’ll ask Watts to bring me up to speed,” he said. “So far he hasn’t asked for our help.”
“I’d like for someone to let me know how the investigation progresses,” I said. “But we don’t have a phone. The Sheriff knows where we live.”
“I’m sure he’ll be in touch if he needs you,” he said. “Have a fine afternoon.”
“You’ve got pictures of a killer right there in front of you,” I said. “Spend your afternoon figuring out who he is.”
The cops around my new homestead sure had a casual attitude towards solving crime. I doubted there was much crime at all in Banner Elk. Boone was a college town. The cops there probably specialized in drunks and druggies. I didn’t know much about what went on out in the counties. It was very rural, probably not much action for police officers. Still, I was spitting mad on the drive back to the cabin. I’d taken great pains and made a personal sacrifice to hand-deliver the identity of a killer to law enforcement. We’ll get back to you wasn’t good enough.
“What else can we do?” asked Brody.
“I need to talk to the Sheriff,” I said. “In the meantime, we can look for that bullet.”
“What if we run into our killer up there?”
“Plants have been watered,” I said. “There’s rain in the forecast. He won’t risk coming back for a while.”
“Then I guess we’re going bullet hunting,” she said. “You can teach me the ways of the mountain.”
“I just learned a few things myself,” I said. “Let’s not pretend I’m Grizzly Adams.”
“I think you look more like Jeremiah Johnson,” she said. “You just need the beard.”
I was half expecting the Sheriff to show up that afternoon. By the time we sat down to dinner, I knew he wasn’t coming. We’d give him a few hours in the morning before we went up the hill. I was reasonably sure we’d be alone up there, so we didn’t take all the precautions that I’d taken before. We had a relaxing evening and got a good night’s sleep.
A police cruiser pulled down the drive just after nine the next morning. The Sheriff got out with a file folder in his hand. I invited him in and offered him coffee. We sat at the kitchen table and went over the pictures he’d printed out.
“I should say something about you going to the Banner Elk PD,” he said. “But their chief knows our boy, so I’ll let it pass.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Who’s our man?”
“Cody Banner,” he said. “Umpteenth removed descendant of the original Banner family.”
“What do you know about him?”
“The Chief passed along a little history,” he said. “Troubled youth. Judge pushed him to go into the Army instead of jail. Seemed to turn him around for a while, but disciplinary problems eventually got him booted out of the service. He’s had a few run-ins since coming home. Drunk and Disorderly, small-time possession, DUI, small stuff.”
“Murder is not small stuff, Sheriff,” I said.
“We’re a long way from booking him for murder,” he said.
“Fifty mature weed plants isn’t small stuff either,” I said. “It was big enough to kill Pop Sutton over.”
“We don’t know what went down,” he said. “All we have is your conjecture.”
“And my photos,” I said. “What about the rifle?”
“It’s a Remington Model 700,” he said. “Wilderness rifle. Pretty common in the backcountry. Durable and the price is right.”
“I don’t know much about rifles,” I said. “What round does it fire?”
“Another reason this gun is popular,” he said. “It can handle a variety of loads. 270, 30.06, all the way up to the 300 Win Magnum.”
“So if we found the bullet it would still be hard to narrow it down to that specific rifle?”
“Forensics lab could identify it if we had both the weapon and the bullet,” he said. “We’d have to send them to Raleigh.”
“So are you going to track this guy down and question him?” I asked. “At least about the dope?”
“I’ve taken the matter under consideration,” he said.
I sifted through the pictures until I found the one I wanted.
“Here we have a known subject, watering what is clearly a pot plant,” I said. “The man is armed with a high-powered rifle, but not hunting. A man was killed recently with just such a rifle. One plus one equals two, Sheriff.”
“If it were only that simple,” he said. “I’ll be seeking advice from our legal minds before I make any kind of move on this. It’s not cut and dried like you think it is.”
“I’m certainly no legal mind,” I said. “But if I get you that bullet, will you get a warrant for the rifle and see where it leads?”
“Even then, the defense would have a field day,” he said. “You pull a random bullet out of a tree not far from Cody’s hunting camp but not where the body was found. It won’t tie him to the murder.”
I seriously regretted moving the body and cleaning up the crime scene. I screwed the whole thing up. I was at a loss for what to do next. I looked to Brody for guidance. She’d been an investigator.
“I know it’s circumstantial at best,” she said to the Sheriff. “But you bring him in on dope charges and squeeze him. Pressure him until he’s ready to plea. Avoid a trial.”
“I should have paid more attention to the red flags your background check raised,” he said. “One of you is former law enforcement, while the other was usually on the wrong side of the law. Quite the team you two have. On the other hand, maybe you’re simply diverting suspicion from yourselves. You sneak into my county under the radar with shady pasts. A dead body turns up on your property and you shove your own personal investigation down my throat. Who’s to say you’re not framing this Banner fellow?”