Cop and Call A Novel

by R. Scott Lunsford

  As the school buzzer rang to signal the end of the day, Bishop asked, “Does your teacher know you’re here? What did you tell her?”

  “Yes, sir, I told her I needed to give you the book. She said to go to the bus when the bell rang.” Jennifer stood to lean over his desk, her eyes brimming with tears. “Officer Bishop, please. Can you help me?”

  He sighed. “I’ll help you however I can, you know that.”

  Jennifer sniffled as a small smile crept across her face. “I knew you could. Thank you.”

  “But I can’t do anything without talking to your aunt and uncle first,” he reminded her.

  “Aunt Kathy doesn’t know I kept one of Momma’s books. She might be mad.”

  “Then you best tell her and your uncle that we had this talk. I’ll be calling them later, too.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll talk to them.” And with that, Jennifer retrieved her book bag from beside Bishop’s desk and hurried out to catch her bus.

  Bishop grabbed the bright colored mesh safety vest from the hook behind the office door and shrugged it on before heading to the parking lot to direct traffic and get the buses moving. Feeling a vibration and buzzing in his shirt pocket. He yanked his phone from his pocket as he went down the corridor, surprised to see a message from Lieutenant North. “Meet me”, it read. Puzzled by the request, Bishop texted an “OK” as he reached the double doors leading out to the bus line.

  CHAPTER 30

  HAPPY HILL RESTAURANT, PATTON AVENUE

  Bishop arrived at Happy Hill Restaurant before North showed up. He headed inside where he was met by Mike, the owner, who directed him into the meeting room usually reserved for large parties. He brought Bishop a cup of coffee to nurse while he waited for his colleague. North showed up about 20 minutes later and took a seat across from him. The two ordered hamburgers, with Mike promising privacy as he pulled the room’s door closed and headed back to the kitchen to cook.

  “OK, North, what’s with the secret squirrel stuff?” Bishop asked, looking around the walled-off room.

  North pulled over the white board on wheels that stood in the corner. The room was used by many organizations in West Asheville to hold meetings and gettogethers. Mike the owner kept it stocked and ready for such. “There’re some strange things going on with these latest homicides. Wanted to bounce some information off you and see if it sounded familiar. Or maybe you’ll know some of the major players.”

  Bishop slapped his legal pad and trusty Cross ballpoint pen onto the table. “Go ahead.”

  “The shooting downtown,” North declared, taking a dry-erase marker to the board. “I’ve backtracked other case files, and I’m sure this is where things got weird. I checked with the FBI’s VICAP people, and nothing similar—in a cluster like this—has been found going back 30 plus years.” North went on to list the individuals and incidents involved in the investigations that he thought were connected. He made short notes next to each white board noted incident.

  “From what I understand, Mr. Ledford’s killing doesn’t seem to fit the bill. No torture signs. Just shots to the chest,” Bishop said.

  “Yes, his death looks like a simple home invasion and robbery. Junkie who fell off the wagon. Ledford knew the kid, too, which isn’t all that surprising. It’s the junkie kid’s death that’s the concern. It matches the medieval torture M.O.”

  “Medieval torture?” Bishop repeated with a puzzled expression on his face.

  North proceeded to elaborate the theory the Medical Examiner had put out that the killings were copy cats attempts to imitate Medieval Torture scenarios. North then related officers discovering Norton at one of the crime scenes and the appearance of the Reverend Malachi.

  “What have you discovered about this Reverend Malachi and his friend?”

  North held his palms up. “Nothing on Norton, and I mean nothing. Only a Tennessee driver’s license. No arrest records, no credit history. His social shows a few jobs here and there, but no income he’d need to file a tax return over.”

  “Homeless?”

  “Not like you’d find in a record review. No Internet footprint whatsoever, either.”

  “OK, how about the preacher?” Bishop followed.

  “This might be more up your alley, and one reason I wanted to discuss the investigation with you” North remarked. “He does have an arrest record—snake handling.”

  “Excuse me?” Bishop folded a napkin onto his lap as a hamburger appeared before him. “Snake handling.”

  “Yeah, he’s a snake-handling preacher from Tennessee. He’s been charged several times for conducting church services or revivals using poison snakes and having attendees drink poison to prove their faith.”

  “Ya know,” Bishop said, having had his own experience in snake-handling, “the activities not really meant to prove faith as much as to demonstrate the person’s got it.”

  “What’s the difference?” North asked, taking a seat to tuck into his own burger.

  Bishop chewed thoughtfully. “More of a difference of perspective, I guess. One time, while I was home from college during my freshman year, my best friend arranged a double date with two girls. We were supposed to attend a church revival and then grab dinner. My friend and I had both grown up in church, so we didn’t think much of it. During the service, they started handing out snakes. We got out of there real fast and just went to dinner.”

  “Huh,” North grunted. “Well, we found newspaper articles on the arrests, but no case files with the investigating agencies. The last mention of King was five years ago, where he was cited in an obituary as conducting the service. Other than that, nothing for the past 10 years.”

  “I can tell you I’ve not heard of either of those two, but I can check with some people I know. Preacher James, one of the street preacher downtown might know King, I’ll ask him.” Bishop replied. “The thing about the Widow’s Mite, is not unheard off. Replicas and the real thing are very common tourist buys in Israel. The allegory is simple. Jesus is teaching at the Temple in Jerusalem. A poor widow donates two small coins, while wealthy people donate much more. Jesus explains that the small sacrifices of the poor mean more to God than the extravagant, but proportionately more, donations of the rich. Hence, I don’t have much to give, but I give all I have. It’s also where the term ‘put my two cents worth in or just my two cents’ came from.”

  Looking at his wrist watch, Lieutenant North saw they had been there an hour and a half. Mike having brought in refiles of coffee and water for the two. Needing to leave before he started getting calls from his wife, he ended the meeting saying, “Keep this between us right now I don’t need Connard having a duck fit over me asking you for help. Submit any investigative follow up reports directly to me. I don’t want anything done against policy. I want a good conviction in court when we catch someone. We make an arrest and the Acting Chief can’t compline how we got there.”

  After Cleaning up the room and the dry erase board Lieutenant North paid the bill and thanked Mike for the use of the meeting room. Once in the parking lot to go their separate ways North made one more statement after mounting his BMW motorcycle and starting the quite engine. “You know the Medical Examiner, Dr. B. said something interesting at one of the crime scenes.”

  “Oh, what was that?” Bishop asked

  “He said the wounds and premortem injuries and actions looked like the victims were being punished for something.”

  With that comment North lowered the visor on his helmet, put the motorcycle into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the Sgt. standing alone. Bishop immediately thought back to his earlier conversation with Jennifer. Maybe, he reasoned, she had gotten mixed up in more than she bargained for after all. That thought made the Sergeant pull out his cell phone and start scrolling through his contacts looking for someone whom he thought might help with his requested inquiries.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE RAVEN’S GLASS PUB

  After finishing up with North, Bishop park
ed his own motorcycle behind his favorite local pub and headed inside to claim his regular seat near the front door. The Raven’s Glass Pub in a repurposed garage was reminiscent of a classic English pub, an homage to the homeland of the couple who’d restored the building a decade earlier. The shingle hanging out front displayed a Raven sitting on the handle of a magnifying glass. The image a reference to the owner’s years spent as a guard at the Tower of London, and time working as an Inspector at Scotland Yard. Bishop had deposited his cell phone at the door locking it in a collection of cubby holes established for that purpose at the bars entrance. Alfred Dymand, the owner, had a standing rule that no electronics passed the foyer door. These devices impeded the social atmosphere of the establishment. Alfred, the owner, spotted his friend and delivered a mug and carafe of coffee. Picking up where I left off, Bishop mused, pouring himself a cup and checking to make sure his hands weren’t quivering from caffeine overload.

  “Expecting company?” Dymand queried.

  Looking up at the tall stout Englishman Bishop replied, “Josh Warren and possibly Jade.” Bishop referring to the local author and radio personality Joshua P. Warren and his friend Buncombe County Deputy Sheriff Jade Cole, also a School Resource Officer for the county.

  Dymand, himself a retired English police officer, recognized investigative casework looking at the paperwork before Bishop. “You shouldn’t be mixing your day job with your personal life,” he warned.

  “Jade is a friend. Our work overlaps a lot.” He spotted Dymand’s wife swooping out of the kitchen with a roast beef platter in hand, noting, “You two mixed work and life together, and it turned out pretty good.”

  “Indeed,” Dymand conceded with a grim. “But that was 40 years ago, and I was smarter and better-looking than you are now. I’m just saying, you need to spend some time with your lady friend. You could both could use it.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Bishop was relieved to see Josh, the local radio host and author who specialized in the paranormal, come through the front door and give him an excuse to get out of the hot seat. Bishop waved him over.

  “What’ve you got for me?” Warren asked. “I can’t stay long, unfortunately. Show’s tonight.”

  “What do you know about curses?”

  “Enough to know not to mess with them.” Warren paused and took a long slurp from his own coffee tumbler. “They seem to work best when the person on the receiving end knows he was cursed. Power of suggestion, guilt, fear of the person who ordered the curse, whatever. Those account for most of the effective ones.”

  “And what about the others?”

  “Well, there’s always plain old bad luck. And karma. And then?” He shrugged. “Magic? Bad vibes? Divine intervention?”

  Bishop leaned back in his seat and contemplated Warren’s logic, inclined to agree with that last bit. “And how about calling up demons or spirits?”

  Warren huffed. “Personally, I don’t want to mess with anything to do with demonology. But I do know a good demonologist in Charleston I could refer you to, if you want. Spirits, on the other hand… well, you’ve been with my team when we’ve documented anomalies in electro-magnetic fields. Don’t tell me you’re not convinced after the things you’ve seen.”

  “Some of it’s been pretty persuasive, I’ve gotta admit,” Bishop said.

  “Remember the G.I.F.T. girls?” Warren asked. “Two Saturdays ago, they were researching a cemetery in West Asheville when some strange stuff went down. They recorded some laughter. They didn’t hear it themselves, but it was caught on one of the digital recorders. I have some of the audio files you need to listen to. The G.I.F.T. team gave them to me to analyze. It’s a little unnerving to listen to.” Agreeing Warren continued, “

  “Speaking of unnerving,” Bishop said, sliding the black book across the table to Warren, “take a look at this.”

  Warren spent the next 90 minutes poring over the book, barely looking up when Jade sidled up beside Bishop in the booth. Bishop had the presence of mind to point her to the chair next to Warren so as not to stir up any gossip in the pub. The locals were already chatty enough; he and Jade didn’t need to give them any more fuel for the fire.

  “Unusual book,” Warren declared finally, slapping the volume shut and draining the rest of his now-cold coffee. “A combined Gilmore, journal, textbook, and Book of Shadows.” Warren went on to explain that a Book of Shadows contains religious texts and instructions for magical rituals in the Neopagan religion of Wicca. Deputy Jade Cole still looking puzzled at Warren caused the writer to further explain. “A Grimoire is more of a textbook of magic, instructions on how to create magical objects like talismans and amulets, perform spells, how to summon or invoke supernatural entities.” Pausing to drink some of his cold coffee he continued now speaking to Bishop. “This looks like someone took somebody else’s writing and organized the information to make it easier to understand. Do you have the previous books, considering this is number 7?”

  “No, not yet, and I may not” Bishop answered.

  “I take it this is related to the current homicides?”

  “That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I’m not entirely sure.”

  “If you take this for what it’s meant to be, it doesn’t make sense that it’d be related to your list there.” Warren pointed at the pad on which Bishop had scrawled the 10 deaths currently under investigation.

  “If I understand what’s written here,” Warren continued, “this section of the book deals with revenge. Punishment against one person. You really need to show this to someone who knows more about this sort of material.”

  Bishop said simply, “Granny.”

  With a smile, Warren agreed. “She’s as close to an expert on this stuff you’re going to find short of a university.”

  “Guess you’re right. We’ll drop by her place afterwards.” Warren couldn’t help but pass a knowing smirk to Jade as he excused himself to head to the radio station for his shift.

  CHAPTER 32

  GRANNY’S HOUSE

  Bishop parked his Jeep in the drive of the white house with blue trim. Granny had told him years ago the blue paint around all the windows and doors served as a type of talisman to keep out evil. Granny had moved from the South Carolina low country to Asheville about 20 years ago after a hurricane on the coast had all but wiped out where she lived. She was a Gullah, a direct descendant of Southern slaves. Granny was a root doctor, a kind of fortune teller, and took no chances when it came to protecting herself and her assets. She met Bishop and Jade at her front door wearing a toothy grin. Ushering them inside, she offered a plate of warm cookies and two glasses of lemonade before asking, “Now, what did y’all bring to show me? You don’t turn up here for nothin.’”

  Bishop reached into his jacket and removed the book, handing it to Granny. She took it and sank into a chair so overstuffed that it threatened to consume her small frame. Bishop and his lady friend looked around the living room as Granny turned her attention to the material before her. Jade gestured wordlessly toward a large table pushed against the wall, crowded with a computer tower, monitor, video camera, and microphone. To the right of the supersized monitor sat another device Bishop didn’t recognize. He shrugged in response to Jade’s unasked question and took her hand in his as they waited.

  As if on cue, Granny climbed out of her chair and hobbled over to the computer. It put the police department’s desktops to shame; her screen came to life as soon as she jiggled the mouse. She slid the open book under the device on the right, and an enlarged page appeared on the monitor. “Gotta use this for my readin’,” she said by way of explanation. “Now where did y’all find this book, Thomas?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a young girl at one of my schools who’s been through a lot—Jennifer. She lost her parents and then later her sister and cousin, so now she’s with her aunt and uncle. She’s getting by all right, but she told me that her mom had left a series of books for her to read in a very specif
ic sequence. And she went against those orders. Not too long ago, she followed that book’s instructions—” he nodded toward the screen “—and is afraid she might’ve put a curse on her family’s murderer. Because she did the spell, and now the man is dead.” Bishop went on to explain how Jennifer had brought the book to him. His conversation with Jennifer’s aunt and uncle afterwards and some family history as related to him by the aunt.

  “Poor child”, Granny added. “This will make her a strong woman. If-in she has the right mind set. Your goanna help her with that.” The last a statement of fact and not a question.

  Granny turned to look at him fully. “I’d like to keep this book for a little while, if it’s OK. Wanna look into some things a little bit. I’ll call y’all when I find somethin’ worthwhile.”

  Bishop nodded, “that won’t be a problem, the family is hoping you might be able to help Jennifer.”

  CHAPTER 33

  LEXINGTON AVENUE

  Somehow Bishop felt as though all his running around and talking to individuals wasn’t netting him great gains. He and Jade had decided to take in a show at the local community theatre. A presentation of Inherit the Wind, to which, unbeknownst to him, Alfred Dymand’s wife had slipped Jade tickets on the way out of the pub the evening before. The timeout had been a nice reprieve from the seemingly never-ending string of routine incidents at the schools as of late and the new pressures in assisting with the ongoing murder investigations. Even now, he was on his third attempt to locate Preacher James. He finally found him where Bishop likely should have looked in the first place: in a parking lot in downtown Asheville with his trademark red cooler at his feet. The thing was always brimming with deli sandwiches and cold-water bottles to share with the kids who inevitably horded around him, eager for a bit of a story about the history and strange happening around town.

  Bishop waved as he approached James’ impromptu tailgate. A few teens who’d been huddled around him scattered at the sergeant’s approach, eying the officer with suspicion. A few stood their ground listening to Preacher James continue one of his stories. “Yes Sir, the Devil’s out there. People have called him different things at various times. He’s got lots of names. Old Scratch, old Harry, old Nick, why once he even had the same name as my first wife.”