A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  Lenore reached across Collin to shake Angela’s hand. “Molly and I love those shows,” she gushed. “How exciting to have you part of the team.”

  Cory DeMille’s smooth brow creased with a trace of annoyance. I could tell she wasn’t completely comfortable with someone exploiting the event for an article that could wind up in some weirdo publication. “Yes, Angela,” Cory said, “welcome to Asheville. Perhaps we can talk later about the best way to use your talents. I want to make sure the twins remain the focus of everything we’re doing.”

  “Absolutely,” Angela agreed. “Someday I want them to read the story and to be proud of how this community rallied around them.”

  Cory relaxed. “Good. Now last but not least, it’s Tom’s turn to introduce himself.”

  I leaned forward, keen to learn how Hewitt’s opposing counsel wound up sitting beside his trusted paralegal.

  Like Hewitt, Peterson rose to his feet. “I’m Tom Peterson. I’d been part of the public defender’s office for about six months. The Atwood trial was my first assignment and although it was trial by fire for me, the horrific outcome is something that will haunt me forever. I got to know Cory visiting her in the hospital.”

  I glanced at Nakayla. If this was news to her, she masked her surprise.

  “I keep thinking I could have done something.” Peterson’s voice choked. “Talked to Atwood a few minutes. Calmed him down.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Hewitt’s expletive snapped the young attorney’s head around.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Now Peterson’s voice was choked with anger.

  “No, sir, I’m not.” Hewitt spoke softly, even managing to smile. “You believe what you’re saying. It’s admirable but it’s still bullshit. You couldn’t have done anything. Atwood was a man who beat his wife. In my opinion, that’s one of the most despicable acts a man can commit. If he wouldn’t listen to her pleas, he certainly wouldn’t listen to you. I suggest you learn from this case and then put it behind you. That means working on the fundraiser for the boys’ future, not as some atonement for your imagined failure. You did the best you could with the hand you were dealt.”

  The rest of us sat motionless, waiting to see if the two lawyers launched into a full blown debate.

  Peterson held his breath and took a ten count. “Thank you, counselor.” He sat.

  Hewitt extended his hand as if it held an invisible olive branch. “I apologize for interrupting. Sometimes I forget every room isn’t a courtroom. Please share a little more as to how you came to Asheville.”

  Peterson looked at Cory.

  “Please do, Tom. I know Sam will find it interesting.”

  He looked at me. “After law school, I went to work for another Sam. My Uncle Sam. I served four years active service in the JAG Corps. I’m in the reserves, but I can live anywhere. I chose Asheville and fortunately passed the North Carolina bar exam.”

  A military lawyer. As a chief warrant officer, I’d worked with the prosecutorial side in hundreds of investigations. Most of the JAGs were good guys, but some thought they were God’s gift to military justice.

  “Were you stateside?” I asked.

  “In between two tours of Afghanistan.”

  “You should find Asheville less dangerous.”

  Tom Peterson’s eyes narrowed as he gave me a hard look. “Clyde Atwood proved otherwise.”

  I said nothing. The quick reaction of a deputy was the only thing that had stopped Atwood from shooting me at point blank range.

  “And Clyde Atwood isn’t having the last word,” Hewitt said. “At least that’s why I’m here.”

  A murmur of approval rippled around the circle.

  “What about security?” Angela asked. “It will be dark and it sounds like we’ll have people stretched out all over Asheville.”

  “They’ll be with guides,” Cory assured.

  “Angela’s right,” I said. “People tend to wander or trip in the dark. And buses can break down.”

  “Excellent points, Sam.” Shirley had a devilish gleam in her eye. “You’ll make a fine head of security planning. Does everyone agree?”

  I won my first election by a landslide.

  Chapter Four

  “Nathan, do you copy?” I released the transmit button of the handheld, two-way walkie-talkie and waited for Nathan Armitage’s response.

  “Yes. Loud and clear. Any problems?”

  “I haven’t seen Molly yet. I thought she’d check in with me.” I stood under the arch of the stone bridge spanning College Street. The steep slopes on either side of the road made climbing up to the top of the bridge impossible.

  “Well, she didn’t check in at the base,” Nathan said. “Maybe she went straight to your site and parked above the bridge. That’s where she’s supposed to appear, right?”

  “No. She’s going to walk up to me out of the woods, but it’s getting foggy up here.”

  Dusk deepened the shadows into impenetrable darkness, and clouds began dropping onto the high crest of Beaucatcher Mountain. The first busload of ghost tour patrons was scheduled to arrive in less than thirty minutes. They would disembark and gather under the bridge around the old storyteller, who was I wearing bib-overalls and a floppy, leather hat, looking like I’d just walked down from my still.

  The fundraiser promised to be a huge success. We’d scheduled the ghost tour for the second Friday night in October when leaf colors brought a spike in tourists and yet the evenings weren’t bitter cold. Nakayla, Cory, and Shirley sold out all the tickets; Hewitt Donaldson and Jerry Wofford landed as many sponsors as the event could handle; Angela Douglas and Collin McPhillips delivered on their promise of media promotion; Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter booked buses and coordinated volunteers; and Tom Peterson worked city hall to get the necessary permits.

  I hit up my friend, Nathan Armitage, for communications equipment and some off-duty guards from his company. Nathan owned Armitage Security Services and provided radios of law-enforcement caliber for all transportation vehicles and guides. Nathan agreed to man our base at Pack Square while Hewitt and Tom Peterson drove backup vans that circulated along the route.

  Peterson joined the conversation. “I didn’t see Molly before I went mobile.”

  “Does she have a cell phone?” Hewitt Donaldson’s question boomed from the receiver with surprising clarity.

  “She should,” Peterson said. “Her friend Lenore must have the number. But Lenore’s in costume. I doubt if she’ll have her phone with her.”

  Lenore Carpenter was stationed at the Grove Park Inn, one of Asheville’s most famous and distinctive resorts with a history of guests including Harry Houdini, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and presidents from Woodrow Wilson to Barack Obama. One unknown guest had long overstayed. Known only as The Pink Lady, she roams the inn as a misty, spectral shape, the ghost of a young woman who plunged to her death in the Palm Court Atrium in the nineteen twenties. Her identity remains a mystery, but her eerie presence has been sighted for over ninety years. Whenever she does check out, she’s going to have a hell of a hotel bill.

  “I’m parked in the Grove Park lot. I’ll see if I can find Lenore in the hotel,” Peterson said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Meanwhile, if the first bus shows up before I hear from you, I’ll tell my tale and summon whomever or whatever I can from beneath the bridge.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the real Helen, Sam,” Peterson said. “That would create terrific publicity for the cause.”

  “Nathan, who’s on the first bus?” I asked.

  “Nakayla’s the host. Angela and Collin are riding along to get some photographs of Helen’s first appearance for Angela’s article. If Molly hasn’t arrived, they can stick around until she gets there. I’m not sure how successful you’re going to be with this first group anyway.”

  “Why’s that?”r />
  Nathan’s voice tightened as he tried to stifle a laugh. “They don’t speak English.”

  “What?”

  “Hewitt sold a block of tickets to UNC-Asheville and so you’ve got a university mini-coach heading your way with twenty Japanese students on a cultural exchange program. But, they have an interpreter and I’m sure he can translate ‘Helen, come forth!’ with the same dramatic zeal you proclaim it.” Nathan clicked off his transmit button but not before his laugh was broadcast to everyone on the team.

  I shouted up to the bridge, “Molly! Molly, come forth!” No answer. Molly could have parked her car farther up the mountain where I wouldn’t have seen her, but the plan was for her to check in with me at the base of the bridge.

  I directed my flashlight beam over my head. Mist descended from under the arch high above me. I felt the dampness penetrate my overalls and I feared the rain predicted for after midnight might be moving in early. The deteriorating weather might add to the spooky atmosphere, but a downpour would be a disaster for the walking tour through Asheville and the food and beverage vendors along the route.

  There was no sense waiting out in the open when I could be warm and dry in the car. I walked thirty yards down the slope to the turnout spot where Nakayla and her group would meet me. I started the Honda CR-V’s engine and set the heater on high. Then I rehearsed my speech.

  Twenty minutes later, the fog on the crest of the road beneath the arch brightened. The glow concentrated into two headlights and the oncoming vehicle swung wide to park on the turnout behind me. I grabbed the floppy leather hat off the seat, plopped it on my head, and stepped out of the car to face what I thought would be a mystified group of Japanese intellectuals who wondered what kind of culture I represented.

  Nakayla’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie on the passenger’s seat. “Arrived at Helen’s Bridge. Sam is waiting.”

  “Okay from base,” Nathan replied.

  I closed the car door, walked back to the small bus, and stood in front of the headlights.

  Nakayla alighted first, wearing an orange slicker and carrying her walkie-talkie in her right hand. A thin Asian man followed her into the pool of light.

  “Sam, this is Mr. Tanaka. He’ll be your translator, although everyone in the group has at least a rudimentary knowledge of English.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I should nod, bow, or offer my hand.

  Mr. Tanaka did all three. His grip was firm. “Thank you, Mr. Blackman. Miss Robertson has informed me as to what will transpire. I ask that you pause every few sentences so that I might translate and make sure no one misses a word of your marvelous story.”

  “Then stop me anytime if I’m going too fast.”

  Mr. Tanaka turned to the bus and waved. I didn’t realize it was a signal for The Charge of the Light Brigade. The Japanese riders cascaded out like a bomb on the bus was seconds away from detonation. The light of Light Brigade became an explosion of camera flashes as they encircled me. Had they meant me harm, there would have been no escape.

  I removed my hat, vainly thinking the bare-headed look might not appear as stupid when my picture was posted back to Japan.

  Mr. Tanaka waved his hand again and the photo frenzy instantly ceased. He raised his voice and made a short statement. I recognized two words, “Sam Blackman.” Several members of the group repeated my name in reverent whispers I fantasized might have been the awestruck tone women used when they said, “George Clooney.”

  More flashes came from behind me. I turned to see Collin McPhillips, camera close to his eye, documenting this international encounter. Angela stood beside him jotting notes in a small journal.

  “Sam, you can begin now,” Nakayla prompted.

  What the hell. I pulled the hat down to my ears. “Follow me to the base of the bridge.”

  They jumped in line like a platoon called to move out and we marched up the rise to the looming arch. As soon as I stopped, they fanned into a perfect semi-circle with Mr. Tanaka and me at the center point of its radius.

  I cleared my throat and then spoke with as much solemnity as I could muster. “The bridge over us was built in 1909 as a carriage way to the mansion on top of this ridge.”

  I paused and Tanaka delivered unintelligible, rapid-fire syllables while heads bobbed in unison.

  When he finished, I picked up my story and we continued this verbal leapfrogging as I went through the history of the Pennsylvanian John Evans Brown making his fortune in New Zealand, returning to his native country, and settling in Asheville, where in 1889 he constructed the mansion he called Zealandia. I told of a small, nearby cottage that mountain lore claims housed a beautiful woman named Helen and her young daughter. Then, with dramatic intensity, I described the young girl trapped in the burning mansion and the mother’s vain efforts to brave a barricade of flames and rescue her. I wandered off script in the enthusiasm of the moment, feeling myself swept up by the currents of my imagination.

  “And in her grief and desperation, Helen dragged a rope from her cottage to this very bridge. Blinded by tears, she tied one end through a chink in the stone work and then pulled the knotted noose over her head. Calling out to the daughter whose name has been lost to time, she flung herself from the center of the bridge and hanged herself.”

  Mr. Tanaka nudged me and I realized I’d gotten so carried away, I’d forgotten to wait for his translation.

  Although I couldn’t understand his words, I felt the emotion with which he infused the tale. His listeners’ mouths opened and their eyes danced back and forth from Mr. Tanaka to the top of the bridge above us.

  “Now, the ghost of that poor woman walks forever searching for her daughter. Maybe Helen will come to us tonight, asking if we have seen her child.” I turned around and stared at the bridge while Mr. Tanaka translated.

  When he finished, I let the silence build for a moment, and then stretched both arms up to the sky. “Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth.”

  Mr. Tanaka mimicked my gestures and started speaking.

  A blur of pale fabric appeared on top of the bridge’s stone wall, hung for only a second on its edge, and then tumbled down toward us. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as we all jumped clear of the falling object. But it never struck the pavement. A thick rope snapped taut, jerking the object to a halt with a distinct crack. Then, swinging in the night breeze, the blur became the recognizable shape of a woman, her neck crooked at an impossible angle, her bare feet dangling six feet above the ground.

  The Japanese group broke into spontaneous applause. Camera flashes fired like strobe lights making the gowned woman seem to twitch as the wind blew stronger.

  “Oh, my God!” Nakayla ran to my side and clutched my arm.

  Above us hung neither an apparition nor a theatrical specter, but Molly Staton in the flesh, and very dead.

  Chapter Five

  “Sam Blackman, you’re as contagious as a medieval peasant with the plague.” Homicide Detective Curt Newland made the accusation as he, Nakayla, and I watched the second ambulance roll down the mountain bound for Mission Hospital.

  Two of the Japanese students had fainted when they realized a real body dangled from the bridge. Nakayla and Angela had tended to them while Collin and Mr. Tanaka herded the others back on the bus. I radioed Nathan Armitage to set both police and medical responders into action. Then I personally collected every camera and cell phone, insisting that they were evidence that would be returned as soon as any photographs were transferred to the police. I didn’t want Molly’s body posted on Twitter and Facebook. The Japanese were most cooperative and understanding.

  “First, Heather Atwood and now Molly Staton.” Newland turned and looked up at the body still suspended above us. “It doesn’t pay to stand too close to you.”

  “I don’t think I was close to her. At least n
ot when she died.”

  “You touched her?”

  “Just her foot. Body temperature was much lower than if the hanging killed her.”

  Newland shook his head. “Poor woman. When was the last time you saw her alive?”

  “I didn’t see her at all today. We were to meet up here about thirty minutes before that first bus arrived.”

  Newland looked at Nakayla. “You see her?”

  “No. She never came by our headquarters at Pack Square.”

  “Was she expected to?”

  “We all had our assignments and costumes. Most people checked in but it wasn’t mandatory.”

  “Uncle Newly, there’s no sign of anyone.” The voice came out of the mist masking the top of the bridge.

  Either Ted or Al Newland must have been manning the scene. The two uniformed Asheville policemen were the nephews of the old detective. Even if I could have seen the speaker, I wouldn’t have known who he was. Ted and Al were identical twins, and they only called Newland “Uncle Newly” when they were excited. However, once they’d revealed the family nickname, Curt Newland had become “Newly” to his police colleagues as well.

  “What’s Efird say?” Newly asked.

  Tuck Efird was Newly’s partner and he’d gone to the upper level with the mobile crime lab. Newly had immediately requested the forensics team when Armitage told him the nature of the crime. Heavy fog and rain would erase too much critical evidence if Newly first waited to assess the scene.

  “Efird’s walking up Windswept Drive looking for any tire marks where a vehicle might have been parked on the side.”

  “Good luck with that,” I told Newly. “The roads up here have no shoulders.”

  “Let’s see for ourselves,” Newly said. “I’ve got officers stopping traffic from all directions. And I want to release the scene as soon as I can so we can lower the body. I’m not waiting for the damned ME.”

  “Thank you,” Nakayla whispered.

  I knew from her subdued manner that Molly’s grisly murder had shaken Nakayla to the core. Having to stand beneath the corpse of her friend was surely agonizing.