“I see,” North replied carefully. “Well, if we have more questions, we’ll be in touch.”
King smiled, and the two departed from the police station.
Returning to his office North passed Detective Willis in the hall. Stopping him North presented him with King’s business card and instructed, “Do some digging. Find out everything you can on those two. And keep me posted.” Flustered with the number of dead he had and the lack of investigative progress he returned to his office.
CHAPTER 26
INTERSTATE 26, RUSH HOUR
Officer Bigalow was sitting on Interstate 26 at rush hour, just inside the city limits, an area referred to as Malfunction Junction. The traffic Officer had been occupied in turning interstate chaos, a three-car rear end pile up into a neat concise and informative document explaining what had occurred. Looking out his front window he saw that two of the vehicles had been removed from the roadway. The third a yellow Dodge Charger waiting for a wrecker due to extreme front-end damage, was still impeding traffic. The Officer was parked behind it with all his emergency lights on. Hoping to keep another accident from occurring.
Sergeant Charlie Wilson, the officer’s supervisor had arrived by motorcycle to help with traffic control. The Sergeant had placed his Department motorcycle on the shoulder of the road, just behind the cruiser. Dawning a bright colored safety vest. He had moved further down the interstate placing road flares, and directing traffic to slow down and move to the far-left lane.
Wilson was looking far down the road, hoping to glimpse the oncoming wrecker to expedite the call. Instead of the promised tow truck, he observed a new red Ford F-150 pickup move to the right lane and accelerate. Attempting to direct the truck back into the left lane the Sergeant realized he was being ignored or unseen. Sergeant Wilson leapt out of the way of the on-coming truck. The driver finally seeing the parked police vehicles and flashing lights, swerved, tires on the truck screaming protest to the turn and the application of brakes at high speed. Sergeant Wilson’s Harley Davidson patrol motorcycle was parked on the shoulder. The driver attempted to stop but struck the motorcycle and the right rear of officer Bigelow’s vehicle. Wilson getting to his feet ran towards the mass of metal and motorcycle parts. Calling for assistance over his radio as he ran. He began administering help to his injured officer and the driver of the truck. No time to investigate the status of his beloved police motorcycle.
William paused a second when the excited voice of Sergeant Wilson filled his head phones. Just by the tone of the Police Supervisor it was possible to tell something bad had happened. Dispatcher Supervisor Margret thinking that the new dispatcher had frozen, started to take the call over from the young man. Before she could, William came to life taking control and professionally handling the emergency situation from start to finish. Watching her trainee perform flawlessly, it struck her odd that it seemed like a different person was suddenly behind the dispatch microphone. Even the inflection in the young man voice sounded different. She thought it odd but knew people reacted differently to sudden emergencies and stress. William was certainly doing all the right things, sending back up officers to assist, ambulances and Firetrucks. Organizing everything for a rapid response.
Emergency medical finally transporting the injured to the hospital William was given the tag information on the Red Ford Truck that had caused the second accident. Inputting the information request into the DMV files William relayed the information back to the requesting officer. Digging further into the data bases at his disposal William marveled at the information shown. Shaking his head, he muttered “Someone needs to pay for this”
Buncombe County Detention Center
North Carolina State Trooper Ronald White stood before the glass partition that separated the jail intake area from the Magistrates’ Court. He had been assigned to investigate the collision of the Red Ford truck and two Asheville City Police Vehicles. Behind him on a bench sat a female prisoner recently brought in from the Emergency room. 23-year-old Pam Austin had sobered up a bit since the accident. She knew blood had been taken from her at the hospital, and it would surely show she’d been intoxicated when she wrecked her truck and injured an officer. She did not remember what happened, but she had no doubt she did it.
She was currently out on bond for other DWI charges involving another accident in which she’d mistaken the brake for the gas. She’d struck and killed a mother and her child at a crosswalk on Haywood Road. Luckily, her father’s money had gotten her out of trouble since she was 14. She knew he could fix this, too. It was after four in the morning before her attorney arranged her bail. As she headed west on College Street from the courthouse, she passed a man leaning against a red Corvette parked on the street.
A deep voice in an accent she could not place said, “You must be the prettiest thing I’ve seen in 100 years.”
Stopping and turning to the voice, she smiled, took in the expensive vehicle, and replied, “You must not get out much.”
“My dear, you have no idea.” The voice laughed.
CHAPTER 27
INTERSECTION OF SWANNANOA RIVER AND THE FRENCH BROAD
Two University of North Carolina at Asheville students, Brandon and Jimmy, were collecting water samples where the Swannanoa River merged with the French Broad River when one of the kayaks they were manning got caught on a rope that appeared to be strung from one riverbank to the other. “I thought it was illegal to run anything across the river,” Jimmy remarked.
“It is. This part of the river, anyway.”
Disembarking on shore, they found one end of the nylon rope tied around a poplar tree. Its line went down into the center of the river and disappeared, surfacing about 5 feet later. Then it continued across the river and wrapped around another small tree trunk on the far bank.
Brandon pointed to where the rope sagged underwater. “The smaller tree’s acting like a pulley to make it easier to pull the rope. Must be something heavy tied to it. I saw something like this in an old woodcraft book when I was in Scouts. It was a way to hide stuff.”
Jimmy plucked the rope like a guitar string. “What do you think it’s tied to?”
Brandon shrugged. “Dunno. Let’s see.”
Untying the rope from the poplar and using the smaller tree as a pulley, they worked to hoist the object out of the river. It was heavier than they expected. Up from the water came a piece of metal, what appeared to be a small car hood, carrying a young woman who faced downstream, her face obscured by her matted blond hair. The metal piece acting like a surfboard, the current making it bounce on the river current. It gave the impression the woman laying on her back looking straight up was somehow in control of it.
Fumbling in his pack for his phone and nearly dropping it into the mud of the river, Brandon frantically dialed 911.
“911. Do you need police, medical, or fire?”
Brandon stared at the dangling car hood on which the woman appeared to ride with the river’s current. With a gulp, he managed to say, “Better send everyone.”
CHAPTER 28
CHARLOTTE STREET, NORTH ASHEVILLE
Ray Carson held the door as the man exited the shop, glancing around to confirm the clerk was now alone in the small convenience store. The teenage girl came around the counter to retrieve a broom from beside the door. She paused and smiled at Ray. “Hi.”
Ray whipped a rusty .45 pistol from his belt and slammed the blunt side of the gun against her skull. She fell to the floor unconscious, an egg already beginning to swell on her head. “Sorry, baby, you’re cute, but it couldn’t be helped.” Ray turned the deadbolt on the front door.
Last year, Ray had been a cashier here just like her. He was fired for selling weed out of the cash register. So, he knew his way around the store. He walked behind the counter and flipped a set of switches, turning off the outside lights. He was pleased to find that the store’s security setup was the same as when he’d worked there. He unplugged the cameras hard drive and swiped the spare key
from under the register, unlocking the glass-veiled tobacco case to retrieve the blue vinyl pouch tucked behind a row of boxed glass smoking pipes. He removed all the cash and checks from the bag and shoved the loot into his pockets. He stepped over the cashier on his way out the door, who was moaning and sounded like she might come around. Outside he cut the phone line on the side of the building just in case she decided to try to call the cops.
Ray had parked a couple blocks away and wasted no time heading back toward his car. As he hurried down the sidewalk, a baritone voice drifted out from behind the store’s walled-off trash bins. “Evening, friend.”
Ray yanked a small switchblade from his pocket and spun around, looking for the person behind the voice. No sooner had he spotted a dark figure emerging from behind the fence did he feel a cool fluid splash over him. He scrambled to wipe it from his eyes, which suddenly felt like they were on fire. The still-faceless voice laughed a deep, thrumming chuckle that was punctuated by the softly crackling whoosh of a match being struck against its box. Ray let out a shrill wail as flames raced up his body, singeing his clothes as he crumpled in a heap to the pavement.
It was 8:30 at night when Lieutenant North arrived at the new crime scene. Acting Chief Connard was already standing in front of a line of crime scene tape, doing an on-camera interview with a local TV station. Detective Willis spotted North as he climbed out of his car.
“How’s the girl?” North asked, having memorized the details from dispatch on the way over.
“Possible fracture. A cut on the side of her face that’ll need stitches. More than likely, she’s got a concussion, too. I asked the road sergeant to send someone to the hospital to stay with her in case she makes a statement before we have a detective there. Me or Foster will be going that way in a few.”
Walking over to the charred body at the side of the building, North acknowledged Dr. Baumgartner’s short wave of greeting. “Are we sure the dead guy is the one who robbed the store?” he asked Willis.
Nodding, Willis added, “checks found with the subject were made out to the store. There was a knife next to the body, used to cut the phone wire. Guy had a pistol in his waistband. Looks like he only had three rounds in it. The fire caused the round in the chamber to go off as he was lying on the ground. It went into his leg. Another round cooked off from the heat in the magazine, but they’ll have to collect it at the morgue. Pistol is kind of fused to the guy.”
“Huh,” North muttered. “What about cameras?”
“Yeah, they got ‘em. We think the system’s hard drive was removed. Looks like it was in the guy’s pocket. It might be toast; not sure if the computer guys can even recover anything off it.”
Shaking his head, North told Willis, “Keep me up to speed. Let me know what the girl says when you talk to her.”
Willis gave his boss an affirmative headshake and turned back to the burned body.
One of the patrol sergeants, Sergeant Morrow, was standing outside the crime scene perimeter and moved closer when North beckoned him over. “Morrow, don’t put this out on the radio, but tell your guys to watch out for two men—white males.” He described King and Norton.
“If we locate them, then what?”
“Field interview report. Call me. Charge them if they’re breaking the law.”
“Yes, sir, no problem.”
Dr. Baumgartner came up behind them, remarking, “It’s almost like this guy was burned at the stake, wouldn’t you say?”
North agreed. “Have you found anything yet that might point us to a possible suspect?”
“If my hunch is correct, most of these killings are connected somehow. The similarity to medieval torture and execution practices isn’t coincidental, I don’t think.”
“At least Mackie’s killing was an old-fashioned drug feud,” North replied.
“I’m not so sure of that. The way he was killed could fit the medieval torture M.O. There’s the head crusher, which is exactly what it sounds like: a torture device that worked by crushing the skull. It was used to get people to confess by pushing the jaw and crown of the head together. It usually broke a person’s jaw, teeth, and facial bones. The eyes could even pop out of their sockets. And if the questioner couldn’t get his hands on the actual device, he’d use a large stone instead.”
North whistled as he connected the dots. “Like a brick.” Like the one that had obliterated Mackey’s face. “You make it out to the body in the river?”
“Yes, I did. Homicide by drowning is what the report will say. It was a strange crime scene. Very tricky to work being out in the middle of the river like it was.”
“I didn’t make it out there,” North said. “But the fire chief and water rescue guys told me it was complicated, too.” Someone approaching caught his eye, but he continued. “We did find a stolen Corvette not far from the location of the river scene. We’re checking to see if the river victim’s prints were in the car.”
Nodding the Medical examiner asked, “Is it confirmed the victim in the river is the same person who caused the wreck that injured your Officer?”
“Yes, she had quite a record and was facing some serious time when she was convicted. Do you think someone was imitating that Chinese Water Torture thing?”
“Not exactly that. That was done completely different. Dunking or trial by Ordeal of water has been associated with the witch-hunts of the 16th and 17th centuries. An accused who sank was considered innocent, while floating indicated witchcraft. Torture by dunking was basically water boarding on steroids. That’s what you have in this case.”
North and the doctor now both spotted Connard walking toward them, neither having the answers the acting chief was likely looking for. Not wanting to get wrapped up in whatever interrogation was about to ensue, Baumgartner quickly turned and went back to his work, leaving North to fend for himself.
CHAPTER 29
ASHEVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL
Today Sgt. Bishop was sitting in for the regular Officer assigned to the Middle school, Officer Melissa. She had to attend continuing education training as required by the state. Most of the students were amazed to discover that even as an adult the Resource Officers were required to go back to school and continued to take classes as a law enforcement officer. Eighth-grade student Cody Brady sat across from Sergeant Bishop in the school resource officer office at the middle school. Cody had been sent first to the principal, then forwarded to Bishop for a meeting to discuss his actions. He’d shoved another student in the hallway, knocking him down before kicking him as he walked past. That was grounds for expulsion and possibly even criminal charges, so Bishop had been tasked with keeping an eye on the boy while waiting for his parents to arrive. The young man had spent his time with the Sgt. attempting to explain that what had occurred was not his fault. Even though the closed-circuit Camera system showed otherwise. After hearing about what her son had done, Mrs. Brady agreed to contact Cody’s juvenile probation officer—this wasn’t his first rodeo with juvenile court—and promised to follow up. Bishop was pleased with the seemingly swift resolution and walked the pair out of the building, returning to find Jennifer Chapman standing outside the School Resource Officer office door. She was clutching a book to her chest with a frightened look on her face.
Bishop nodded in greeting. “Miss Chapman, what can I do for you?”
“Officer Bishop, I did something bad. I hurt some people.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘hurt some people’? Here, come sit down and tell me what’s going on.”
“I wasn’t supposed to read it yet, but I did,” Jennifer confessed, collapsing into the chair across from Bishop’s expansive oak desk. She tossed the book toward him. Then, she let out a shaky breath and put her head in her hands. “I used it to hurt someone. I just wanted the man punished for what he did. I didn’t mean to get him killed.”
“Jennifer,” he said gently, “you know this isn’t your fault. None of what’s happened is your fault. You, Mar
y, and Justin weren’t the bad guy’s target. What happened to them was an accident.”
“I know that, Officer Bishop, but I was angry and scared when the man didn’t get caught. I was afraid he would come back and hurt Uncle Joe and Aunt Kathy. Momma made these books for me and Mary, but we weren’t supposed to get them ‘til we turned 16. And then only look at one book at a time. A different book every year on our birthday.”
Confused as to where the conversation was going, he thumbed through the pages before him. “There’s more than one book?”
“Yes, sir.” She reached out and tapped the book’s leather cover as proof. “This is book number seven. I wasn’t supposed to read it ‘til I turned 22. But I missed Momma so much, I kept this one after I found all of them. Aunt Kathy explained what the box of books were and what Momma wanted us to do with them. I promised I wouldn’t open the box again, but I kept this one when Aunt Kathy closed the box and put it back where we found it.”
Bishop studied its contents. It appeared to be a hand-written journal, split between two distinct handwriting styles with diagrams and images. It looked to Bishop like a Book of Shadows, a kind of recipe book for magic spells and other knowledge, something an occult practitioner would own. The details were written in plain English and easier to understand than similar tomes he had seen in the past. Bishop paused at a section that was bookmarked and peered at Jennifer quizzically.
She pointed to the page he had open. “That’s what I did. That was supposed to keep the man from hurting anyone else. It was only supposed to punish him—just him.” She shook her head. “But now I think I made bad things happen to those other people. The ones in the newspaper and on TV.”
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