Cop and Call A Novel

by R. Scott Lunsford

  Mackie sat in a small white pickup in the truck stop parking lot on Interstate 40. The air smelled of fuel and freshly poured pavement baking in the hot sun. He drew in a deep breath, meditatively, and savored the feeling of freedom. He had just purchased a pay-as-you-go cellphone from the convenience store. Now, he was occupied with contacting his associates in Asheville via his new number while the old phone lay beside him with its battery stripped. Mackie wasn’t sure whether or not the cops could reactivate a cellphone and then track it even after it had been turned off. But he did know that if the old phone was in working condition, it could be found based on pings from cell towers—and with them, he could be tracked down, too. So, he figured he may as well be safe rather than sorry. The only way to ensure the phone wasn’t operational was to dismantle it from its battery altogether.

  Mackie’s new phone buzzed, its simple face bearing a blocky text message that stated the cops knew he was one of the shooters. Three kids had been hit in the gunfire, his friend warned. Now the police were looking for him on a murder rap. Mackie couldn’t have cared less; homicide had been his intention from the start. In fact, he was irritated that he wasn’t wanted for the killing of his chosen target. He’d always said that folks needed to keep their kids out of other people’s business—especially his business. He had a job to do, after all.

  Despite his disappointment, the incoming information called for a change of plans. The truck stop’s refueling area for the big rigs was self-serve, tucked away in the back of the lot. Mackie knew he could blend in there if he needed to. As long as he acted like he was doing what he was supposed to be doing, people tended to ignore him—and that was even truer when it came to a black man pumping gas. He turned the ignition in his ratty old pickup and pulled around to park near an open pump. Hiking up his pants, he slunk over and removed the pump from its reservoir before coiling it around the basin to fuel a transfer truck rig. If he buttered up the driver enough, he reckoned, he might just be able to exact some information that may prove useful.

  Mackie might have been a criminal, but he was no idiot; it took him less than 10 minutes to hit the jackpot. One driver told Mackie he was on a run north towards the Canadian border, delivering stock to a department store warehouse. When the driver went in to pay and grab a sandwich for the road, Mackie re-installed a charged battery into his old phone and turned it back on, silencing the ringer. He noticed the driver’s door compartment was overflowing with papers that detailed current and previous cargoes and destinations. An ideal hiding spot, he figured. He quickly grabbed the papers and stuffed the phone into the bottom of the narrow plastic bin before shoving them back into place.

  Mackie had told his associates he’d soon be on the way to Atlanta, where his family lived. Instead he would go to Winston-Salem, NC to camp out for a while. He had no family or business connections there, but the phone would throw the police off his trail; they’d think he’d hightailed it to Canada. Satisfied with his sneaky decoy, he lumbered back to his own vehicle to begin the trip toward his temporary home.

  CHAPTER 11

  LIEUTENANT NORTH’S OFFICE

  Lieutenant North sized up the mountains of paper perched precariously on his desk: manning reviews, equipment orders, case files… he would need to tackle every document eventually, but for now, he was focused solely on the pad of paper in front of him. A major case review on the double homicide was scheduled for this afternoon, and he had a list of items to cover, scrawled in his personal form of shorthand he listed:

  Status of the victim.

  Status of evidence collected.

  Review with District Attorney.

  Status of interviews and statements from witnesses.

  Location of suspect

  North was waiting for Sergeant Bishop, supervisor of the Departments School Resource Officer Unit. Bishop had been keeping track of the survivor’s recovery. Now North needed an update to complete the review.

  The Chief of Police’s emergency trip to the hospital two days after the shooting had surprised everyone. North had always thought of her as being in decent shape—athletic, even. He’d spoken with her husband two days ago. She’d suffered a heart attack followed by a stroke, which was complicating her recovery. North feared she would not be returning to work any time soon, if ever.

  Meanwhile, the downtown shooting investigation was eating up a lot of the department’s resources. It appeared that Acting Chief Connard was attempting to use the investigation to make a name for himself. After assuming the interim position, he inserted himself a bit too eagerly into the investigation, case documentation, and evidence. This would normally not have been too much of an issue except that Connard in his carrier as a Police Officer never worked as a Detective or Investigator. He quickly became obsessed. When informed that the suspect’s cell phone could be tracked, he ordered all resources to focus on this aspect of the investigation—and then he distributed all subsequent information to the press. The US Marshals Service, which had stepped in to assist the department, obtained a federal fugitive warrant on Mackey and a federal search warrant for his cell phone. This information was also provided off the record to the media.

  Not long after, the phone was found to be traveling in a commercial truck headed north on the Pennsylvania interstate. The Pennsylvania State Police and US Marshals Service scrambled to intercept. Mackey was known to be armed, so officers were careful in trying to arrange an arrest. That hadn’t gone well. It turned out that the driver of the truck carrying the cell phone was not, in fact, Mackey. Even worse, Connard had arranged a press conference before he was aware of that not-so-minor wrinkle and ended up appearing utterly unprepared to discuss the case on live television. The relative embarrassment of the whole debacle left him licking his wounds for a few weeks’ time, but now, much to North’s chagrin, Connard was back in the middle of the case.

  A quick knock at the door lifted North’s head. “Bish, tell me you have some good news,” he said at the welcome sight of his friend, Sergeant Thomas Bishop the School Resource Officer Supervisior.

  Bishop sighed. “Not quite. All interviews related to the school system have been completed by your Detectives. No information on Mackey’s location; none of the kids’ve seen him. The victim, Jennifer, has gone home and seems to be doing well in physical therapy. I’d expect her to be released to return to school any day now. Every time I see her, though, she asks if we’ve caught Mackey yet. Have you got any good news I can pass along?”

  North webbed his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and stretched. “Nothing concrete after the cell phone mess. Seems that Mackey’s somehow managed to stay off the grid. We did receive a tip from Winston-Salem PD on a possible sighting. Male subject involved in a fight in public housing. Several bystanders referred to one of the involved parties as ‘that kid killer,’ and the PD thought they might be talking about our guy. We’ve got nothing to link him to that area, but I’m sending someone out there on Monday to look into it. Winston-Salem said they’d give us as much help as we need.”

  Bishop nodded. “I hope it pans out. The kid’s death hit Vance Elementary hard. I’ve kept Jason, the SRO, there almost full time since the shooting.”

  North took a quick note on his pad and stood up. “Yeah, I’d heard that. Hopefully it won’t be much longer. Shooting kids, even by accident, should make it harder for Mackey to stay hidden. This is the first time I can remember not having trouble getting people to speak up. But it’s like the ground opened up and ate the guy. Which normally I would have no problem with, but I want a crack at him before anyone else.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Bishop added, following North out the door, “Officer Goodworth is going to be turning in his notice next week.”

  “You sure?”

  Bishop shrugged, saying, “Afraid so. Sheriff offered him a position in the county’s SRO unit.”

  North raked a hand over his crown. “He is leaving because of the Connard situation?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, rumor is that the Chief won’t be coming back. Connard’s made a statement or two that he’s been ordained to take her place,” replied Bishop.

  “Right, I’ve heard that. That makes six officers we’ll be losing over this nonsense.”

  “Is it nonsense? Folks are worried about their careers and have families to support,” Bishop countered.

  North shrugged. “Regardless, this is above my paygrade. I have several detectives that have expressed the desire to leave as well. Yesterday I received a call from an Agency on the coast asking about one of my Detectives. Seems he has placed an application in with their agency and are doing a back-ground check on him. Right now, I need to concentrate on the homicide case for now and get to the review. District Attorney Oxner will be there.” With that, North shook Bishop’s hand and headed toward the conference room.

  CHAPTER 12

  2 MONTHS AFTER THE SHOOTING

  It watched. What it waited for would soon come. It kept quiet; if it did not move, it would remain invisible. And so, it continued to watch and wait.

  As she helped her Aunt Kathy prepare dinner, Jennifer realized how relieved she was to be home. She was growing accustomed to moving around on crutches. It had been over two months since the shooting that had claimed the lives of her sister and cousin. Learning to walk again, and the pain that came with doing so, was the hardest physical part. Mentally, she still had nightmares. And she missed her sister and cousin desperately. One time, when Sergeant Bishop stopped by to drop off classwork for her, she asked him about the man who was responsible. He told her the police were still looking and would not stop until they found him. The man who had done this scared her, but she wasn’t afraid for herself. Instead, she was afraid he would return and take her aunt and uncle away, leaving her completely alone. She always worried when Uncle Joe went to work. Being a fireman was dangerous, but he always assured her he was careful. This fear was different.

  “Jen,” Kathy said, rousing her from her thoughts, “can you grab that recipe? I need to check what temp to set the oven at.” Jennifer set down the scoop she’d been using to stir a pot of boiling pasta and hobbled to retrieve the cooking magazine from her aunt’s bedroom across the hall.

  It no longer had to wait; its patience was rewarded. Eyes narrowed, it leapt from hiding.

  Jennifer caught a flash of movement in her periphery. The blur moved too quickly for her to react with anything more than a scream. It came whizzing into her left foot, sending her heel flying backward as she lost her balance. She released her crutches and landed with a decisive thud on the floor, half inside and half out of the bedroom.

  The mass of gray fluff was so startled by the sound that it lost interest in a wayward lace on Jennifer’s sneaker. The cat scurried under the nearby bed, seeking refuge behind a wooden box that held up a corner of the sagging mattress.

  “Benny, that’s not funny!” Jennifer scolded, reaching under the bed for the cat but instead feeling the wooden box that barricaded the weaselly feline from her grasp. She pulled the box out to try to swat at him, but off he raced down the hall to safety. The damn cat was sly enough to know she couldn’t catch him.

  She sighed and waved off her aunt, who grabbed Jennifer’s shoulder to ask if she was all right. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she promised. “Just let me get myself together.”

  “You’re sure?” Kathy asked. At Jennifer’s insistent nodding, she tore the recipe out of the magazine and brought the crutches to Jennifer’s side before returning to the kitchen. Alone, Jennifer’s eyes fell on the box she’d unearthed from under the bed: two feet long and a foot wide without hinges, a lock, or even a latch. It was secured instead by two slim cracked brown leather belts with tarnished brass buckles. Normally, Jennifer would have paid it no mind, but she had been quick to notice that the top of the box bore her and her sister’s names. She threw a fast glance over her shoulder to ensure her aunt had gone back to busying herself with dinner; Jennifer had a gut feeling she hadn’t been meant to find the box quite yet—or perhaps she had.

  After undoing the straps as quietly as she could, she discovered inside an envelope labeled with the girls’ names nestled atop a collection of bound black books. Setting aside the envelope, she picked up one of the volumes. It had no title; only the number 7 written on the spine. In fact, all the books were numbered 1 to 7, each neatly handwritten, pages covered with script interspersed with diagrams and strange symbols that appeared to be in a foreign language. There were also sections written in a different hand, not as neat as the other but all signed with “Daddy.” Setting book 7 down beside the box, she picked up the envelope, turning it over and finding it unsealed. She began fiddling with the flap and nearly leapt out of her skin when Kathy appeared beside her.

  Her aunt said nothing, instead waiting patiently for Jennifer to speak. Holding the envelope, she asked, “Aunt Kathy, what is this stuff?”

  Ever since the numbered books had begun turning up, Kathy had been apprehensive about having to explaining the box to the girls. Then her niece’s sudden death had consumed her so much she hadn’t even realized the box was still tucked underneath her mattress. But now, she remembered that she had decided long ago it was best to be completely honest with the girls about its contents when they inevitably came upon it.

  Taking the envelope from her niece, Kathy noticed a slight spicy odor about the paper. She explained, “This was left for you and your sister. I guess it’s just for you now.”

  “But what is it?” Jennifer repeated tentatively.

  “Your father built the box and helped make the books for you. They’re journals from your parents. The letter—” Kathy held up the envelope “—is supposed to explain everything.”

  Intrigued, Jennifer replied, “Can I read it?”

  “Yes, but not yet. Your uncle and I promised to keep it safe for you. We’re supposed to give it to you on your 16th birthday. Your mother was very specific about that; she promised you would understand once you read the letter.”

  Jennifer looked puzzled. “But I don’t understand. Why do I have to wait?”

  Trying to come up with an answer, Kathy paused to think. “Your mother was very special. Your whole family is special.”

  “How? What do you mean?”

  “Okay, you remember when you were in the hospital and you said you had dreams about your mom and she talked to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Other people don’t usually have those sorts of dreams. Do you remember going to the midway at the state fair and how the man at the guessing and matching game got upset because you won almost every game?”

  “Yeah, he said I was cheating,” Jennifer recalled. “But honest, I wasn’t. I just knew the answers.”

  “Right, your uncle thought it was hilarious,” Aunt Kathy said, still mildly annoyed with her husband for the stunt. “That’s another way you’re special: you’re really good at guessing where things are. That’s why your uncle is always asking you to help him find his keys and stuff when he loses them.”

  Jennifer giggled. “He does lose a lot of things.”

  Smiling, Kathy continued, “Your mom left you this box full of information because she thought it would help you and your sister as you grew up. Her mother was there when she turned 16, and your grandmother’s mother was there when she turned 16. But your mom thought there was a chance she might not be here for you when you turned 16. So, she and your dad made arrangements for what they thought was the next best thing.”

  Jennifer drew her good leg up to her chest and rested her chin on her knee. Kathy noticed the tears that threatened to spill onto her jeans. “I miss them,” Jennifer murmured, staring down at her hands.

  Kathy moved closer and wrapped an arm tightly around her niece’s shoulders. “Your mother had her reasons for waiting until you turned 16. She told your uncle and me that it was very important. You’re only to open and read one book at each birthday. And you’ll need to promise to study only one book a year. That�
��s why they’re numbered. Your sister was supposed to do the same thing.”

  Jennifer toyed with the envelope curiously. “Have you read it?”

  “No, we haven’t, the letter is to you and Mary May.”

  Jennifer wiped away her tears and simply said, “Okay.”

  Kathy reassembled the box’s contents and slid it back underneath her bed. Taking Jennifer firmly by the shoulders, she said, “You have to promise me you won’t open the box and your mother’s letter until she wanted you to. On your 16th birthday.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I promise, Auntie. I won’t open the box ‘til you say it’s okay.”

  “Good. Now, come help me make the salad for dinner. Your uncle will be home soon.”

  Jennifer started to follow her aunt into the kitchen, but not before spying the binding of the seventh book peeking out from under the bed. Aunt Kathy must have forgotten to put it back into the box. Leaning on the bedframe for support, Jennifer reached down and plucked it from the carpet, tucking the book into the inner pocket of her well-loved hoodie.

  Turning toward the door, Jennifer spotted Benny sitting in the doorframe, eyeing her suspiciously. “What?” she hissed in a whisper. “I promised not to open the box, and I didn’t.”

  Benny chirruped disapprovingly and sauntered into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jennifer hopped to her own room and slipped Book 7 safely onto her box spring.

  CHAPTER 13

  WEST ASHEVILLE, EIGHT MONTHS AFTER SHOOTING INCIDENT

  For a fleeting time, Jennifer was ecstatic. She could finally walk without her crutches after weeks of physical therapy. It had been grueling work, learning how to walk all over again. Now that she was back at school full-time, her aunt and uncle had slowly eased their restrictions on her mobility until she was allowed to return to her typical wandering ways. Jennifer loved to explore; she knew the neighborhoods around her West Asheville home like the back of her hand.

  This past Friday, Jennifer had tracked down Officer Melissa, the school resource officer, to ask her if the man who had shot her—and destroyed her entire immediate family—had been arrested. “No, not yet,” had been the reply, to Jennifer’s disappointment. “But,” Melissa assured her, “the detectives won’t stop looking for him until he’s caught and punished.”