“Huh,” North remarked as they walked in the direction of Scott’s office. “Well, hopefully we’ll be able to pick up some information from that. Seems kinda fortuitous to have cameras there. They must’ve caught something.”
Sherman shrugged. “You’d like to think so. I heard that three kids were shot, one killed is that true?”
North just nodded his head for a response.
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this one fast. I don’t envy Sgt. Bishop and his people working in the schools, it’s tough to imagine what Monday will look like.” Referring to the Sergeant in charge of the School Resource Officer Unit. Sherman knew that the S.R.O’s often dealt the next day with the aftermath of the street crimes that occur.
“I still remember when one of my old pals from grade school got killed in a car accident,” North said. “The whole school was a mess. Everything was a whirlwind for a couple days, until it wasn’t. Then everyone just kind of went back to their lives. That was even stranger than knowing the kid I’d sat next to in math class was gone. All of a sudden he was gone and basically forgotten.” He took a sharp right toward the stairs leading to the Attorney Gerald Scott’s office. “Or that’s what it felt like, anyway.”
Sherman grunted as he made it to the top step. The County K-9 Officer following behind Officer Sherman tried to wrangle his dog before entering. “Whatever this is, it sure as hell won’t be easy to deal with for anybody.”
Once inside, North raised his hand in a solemn greeting. He’d been in Scott’s office on a few occasions due to Scott’s clients. Today in a pair of shorts and a Myrtle Beach T shirt, the Attorney stood up from behind his desk, he extended his hand to the Lieutenant “Seems I never see you unless there’s bad news,” Scott declared. “Looks like these circumstances aren’t any better, unfortunately.”
North and Sherman nodded in unison, and the former ranked a hand through his shock of black hair. “Worse than usual, I’d say. Have you got anything for us?”
Scott took a seat in front of the monitor perched atop his desk. The officers flanked him from behind. A small black remote in hand, he pointed at the screen. “Watch.”
The visual, in color this time, came to life on the monitor. Judging from the angle, the camera appeared to be tucked away someplace high in a corner of the alley. The footage spanned a mound of bags, blankets, and garbage. Suddenly a man donning a blue coat popped into the picture. There was something in his hand. North leaned forward, almost over Scott’s shoulder. He squinted to try to make out the object. It was a silver colored revolver.
The man tucked the gun into his waistband and peeled off his jacket before tossing it atop the trash pile beside him. He kicked the bottom of the stack, which was nearly as tall as he was, seemingly in an attempt to dislodge some of the junk and effectively bury his coat. Then he stooped down to retrieve an empty plastic shopping bag from the pavement. He balled it in his fist and stepped off-screen. North groaned in frustration.
“Hold on,” Scott said, pausing the video. “We’ve got another view.” He clicked to a different camera angle that panned around what appeared to be the opposite side of the alley. North recognized it as the entrance to Battery Park; he and Sherman had passed it on the way to the attorney’s office. The same man appeared in frame, but he just as quickly disappeared. Scott stopped the video and clicked back to walk the man back toward the center of the monitor, where he paused the image. The silver revolver was missing now. Scott zoomed in on the man’s face and torso. The picture was somewhat blurry, but the men could make out some details. Scott glanced up at North and Sherman, the Buncombe County’s K-9 partner now at ease around the other officers, had lay at Sherman’s feet, intent on discovering the inner workings of a tennis ball.
North turned to his Officer. “Any idea who that is?”
“Yes, sir, that’s Mackey Jarvis. I’ve arrested him before.”
“You’re positive?” North leaned forward again, straining to get a closer look at the man’s features.
“No doubt in my mind, sir.”
North tapped the screen, jabbing at a gold chain adorned with a cross hanging around the man’s neck. “Anything in the subject files that matches that? Might be a good identifier just in case.”
“I checked with the jail. The last time Mackie was booked his held property list showed a Gold Cross on a chain. Not sure if it is the same one, but when he was released the chain and cross were returned and signed for. The 357 pistol was located in the mulch between the locations of the video cameras. It was wrapped in a plastic store bag. Your tech guys should be able to get prints off the bag and gun.” The Buncombe County Deputy Sheriff and K-9 handler replied.
North’s phone begun to vibrate in his jacket pocket. Still staring at the monitor before him he answered with one word, “North.” Listening for a minute he replied with “OK thanks.” Looking to the patrolman and sheriff deputy he continued. “Detective Willis has one of the shooters back at the office. Oliver Griffin, he confirms it was Mackie Jarvis who was on the other side of the street shooting at him. He’s claiming self-defense.”
Officer Sherman shook his head, “should be interesting in court as Griffin is a convicted Felon and should not even be in possession of hand gun.”
“Hey, would it be possible to have these videos?” North turned and asked the Attorney. “They’d be a huge help in the investigation.”
“Of course, you can have whatever you want,” Scott said. “But I’d rather you get a search warrant first. I’m a criminal defense attorney, remember—I have a reputation to keep.”
“Understood,” North responded. His eyes remained trained on the image as he tried to will the man’s current whereabouts into existence. Reaching for his ever-present cell phone he added, “I’ll get right on that.”
CHAPTER 8
THE CASTLE, DISPATCHING CENTER
Dispatch supervisor Ahern had been given the name of a person of interest. Ahern never liked that term, “person of interest”, it was ambiguous. There was not an official definition of the term used by any court. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had mistakenly labeled a man, Richard Jewell as a person of interest in the Atlanta Olympic Games bombings in 1996. Eric Rudolph the real bomber was latter caught by a young Murphy NC City Police Officer doing his job late at night simply checking the businesses on his beat in 2003.
In fact, U.S. Attorney. General John Ashcroft lost a $5.8 million lawsuit over the use of the term. Yet it was still being used today.
Ahern prepared a B. O. L. or a be on the lookout request for Mackie Jarvis at the request of Lieutenant North. Sending out a description and photograph to all police agencies in a 50-mile radius of Asheville. Providing information to the press would be taken care of later by the police information officer who in fact wasn’t a sworn officer but a media trained expert who had retired from a news network in Atlanta then moved to Asheville. Joyce Holt was the voice and media representative for the department. Ahern copied the alert on Mackie to Joyce Holt’s email.
Ahern got the information together and redirected some phone calls to the police information officer. Though not directly involved with the investigation but connected enough to know of the one injured child and the death of the two other children, she had taken it on herself to also notify the department’s chaplain team of the horrible incident. They may be needed to assist the family as well as the responding officers after the emergency aspect is over. The horror of the incident will hit most of them latter, and they must deal with the tragedy that had been before them. Another assignment given her, this time from Police Chief Harding was to make phone contact with the oncoming shift patrol officers and supervisors. An order to have them come in early to assist with calls for service had been issued.
Word had already gotten around the unofficial first responder / law enforcement network, social media links and several of the officers Ahern contacted were already on their way to assist. Without being requested, N.C. Highway Patro
l Lieutenant Wingo had assigned several of his State Troopers to move into the city limits to assist with a backup of accident reports on city streets. When a major incident occurs in any city the regular and sometimes mundane aspects of police work still goes on in the background and must be taken care of.
Mr. Jerry William usually referred to as Mr. Jerry, was the director of emergency services for the county and oversaw the Communications Center, the old converted gray stone mansion referred to as the Castle and the emergency medical dispatching section there. He had brought in food for everyone because of the ongoing situation. After setting the spread out on a foldout table he brought a mug of coffee over to Ahern, setting it down beside her as she continued entering information on her keyboard.
Sliding up a rolling desk chair he sat down with his own mug. Sitting silent for a minute studying his coffee mug, estimating the point where he figured Ahern was almost done he spoke, “I knew a fire chief who told me the kind of a day you’ll have depends on what you drink your first cup coffee of the day out of. He had a whole collection of mugs in his office. If he was teaching a class at the fire academy, he would use one, if he had a doctor’s appointment that day he had a special coffee mug for that also.” Ahern stopped typing and stared at the computer screen before her. Raising his mug to take a drink Mr. Jerry said quietly “crazy bastard.” This last remark made Ahern smile
Mr. Jerry lowered the mug, “are you and your people OK?” “I just spoke to my EMTs who took the kids to the hospital. They all know the girl’s uncle and the boy’s father. Poor girl lost both her parents in the Katrina Hurricane, now she’s lost her sister and their cousin.
Ahern nodded “it’s going to be tough on the whole family.”
Looking at her dispatchers she said “everyone’s OK here, we’re still operating on automatic. We haven’t slowed down yet to think about the aftermath of everything today. That will come later. I’ll set up a debriefing for everyone tomorrow.”
Nodding at the statement Mr. Jerry used his mug to point at the newly hired dispatcher perched behind Margaret Welch, like a pirate’s parrot. “I thought you were getting two new ones today.”
Taking a sip of her coffee, Ahern explained “seems someone ran him off.”
The puzzled look on Mr. Jerry’s face caused Ahern to explain further. “kid had a run in with Captain Connard in the parking lot at the main station. They had a disagreement over the young man’s Sons of Confederate Veterans license tag on his vehicle. Later he called Lieutenant Preston and declined the job offer.”
Taking another step Mr. Jerry repeated his previous statement, “crazy bastard.” Continuing he said, “Connard aware you are five dispatchers down right now and two getting ready to retire?”
Nodding, Ahern answered “of course he is. I think this is something the Chief is going to have to deal with. I’ve got my hands full here.”
The EMS director shook his head. You need anything you just call, OK?” standing he turned towards the rear of the room and the exit.
Looking back at her console to proofread again the text before her, Ahern said, “thanks for the food and coffee.” Moving her attention back to the job, she noticed the monitor before her displayed that the perimeter of the crime scene was being reduced in size. Several officers had been moved from securing the scene to the hospital for security reasons. Others were being put back into service to answer calls. The hunt for the shooter and any others involved would continue until they were located. Glancing over at her new employee she hoped he worked out, she was in serious need of more help.
CHAPTER 9
OFFICE OF THE ASHEVILLE CHIEF OF POLICE
Police Chief Harding looked up from the stacks of paper she had squared up on her desk as a knock rapped on her closed door. A bright shard of midday sun sliced across her newly oak-paneled office, illuminating swirling plumes of dust that seemed to manifest from nothing. She had found out that one of the previous now retired Chief’s had salvaged the paneling from the office walls when the old building had been gutted. He had stacked the antique wood in his work shop. Out of the blue he contacted Chief Harding, asking her if she would like it placed back. Excited about the restoration she and her husband had assisted the former Chief in returning the walls to its original wooden state. The restoration work over the newer sheetrock. Another rap on the door then, “Captain of Patrol Peter Connard,” came a voice from outside. Pushing back her chair, she sighed inwardly and readied herself for what she predicted would be a contentious conversation. Nobody used their full name and rank when knocking at her door except for Connard. “Captain,” she said as she released the lock and motioned him inside, “I have two complaints we need to discuss: one by an employee, and another by a citizen.”
“Citizen?” Connard echoed. “What citizen?”
” The one you called a Klansman,” Harding said simply, passing him one of the many papers perched atop her desk.
” He said he was a dispatcher,” Connard snapped, his cheeks blazing.
“It’s a good thing he hadn’t finished signing his employment papers yet,” Harding told him. “If he had, you’d have been fired.”
Connard tilted his head toward her. “Come again?”
“Well,” Harding pointed out, “being rude and disrespectful to citizens is one thing. When it’s done to an employee, it’s called creating a ‘hostile work environment’.”
” Kid’s a racist,” Connard spat defensively. “He never should’ve been hired to begin with.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He had a Confederate flag on his car and keychain. You know damn well what that means.”
“Why?” Harding asked tightly, feeling anger percolate in her chest. “Because I’m black? For God’s sake, he’s a member of the Sons of Confederate Veterans organization. The flag on his car is part of a legally registered license plate sold by the North Carolina DMV, no different than for any other group or organization. Those folks are into genealogy, not burning crosses. And even if you had thought that, perhaps the middle of the parking lot wasn’t the best place to bring it up.”
” Perhaps.” He shrugged.
“Hell Connard, my brother puts on a kilt and competes in the High Land Games at Grandfather Mountain, that don’t make him a Scotsman.
Receiving a blank stare from the captain, Harding’s eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she continued, “let’s look at complaint number two. You called Officer Stanton at home and ordered her back to work due to an error on some paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Does she have a history of making mistakes on paperwork?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
” And was the error egregious enough that it needed to be corrected right then? It couldn’t have waited until she returned to work later that evening?”
“It could have waited till then,” Connard conceded.
“You notified her Sergeant, correct?”
“No.”
“Was it necessary to curse at the officer and use foul language when speaking with her on the phone?”
“I thought it was, or I wouldn’t have done it,” Connard replied.
Harding huffed. “I’ll be bringing these complaints to HR at City Hall for review.”
“OK,” Connard responded.
As Harding stood up and stepped around her desk to open the door and indicate that this conversation was over, she crumpled to the floorboards. Connard leapt up and hollered into the hallway, “Someone call 911! The Chief’s collapsed!” What happened next was a whirlwind: staff and medics rushing in, CPR, compressions, automatic defibrillator—and then Harding was being loaded onto a stretcher, outfitted in an oxygen mask as she was rolled toward the ambulance waiting in front of the building. A small crowd had gathered in her office but could do little more than stand and watch, mouths agape, wondering what on Earth had happened.
With Harding on her way to the medical center, the previously crowded office began to thin out.
A few people milled about and murmured their concern in hushed voices. He heard someone mention calling the city manager to inform him of Harding’s condition. Connard, for his own part, was initially unsure of what he should do. He contemplated following Harding to the hospital but figured he may as well not given the tension in their earlier conversation. Now, he found himself suddenly alone in the office. He spotted a pair of papers on her desk that detailed his alleged infractions. Without a second’s hesitation, he folded them in half and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Then he ducked into his own office, only a few doors down from Harding’s, and unlocked the tall gray filing cabinet nearest his desk. He yanked forward a fistful of hanging file folders to unearth the fireproof lock box bolted to the metal drawer’s back. After sticking the papers inside, he latched the box and re-secured the cabinet. His phone had been nestled in his pants pocket and suddenly emitted its signature bleat that indicated a call from the city manager. Connard tapped the screen to pick up the call and said, “Hello?”
“Connard,” the city manager stated, “I spoke with one of your staff after Harding’s medical episode. I’m sorry to hear about what’s happened. I certainly hope she’ll be all right.”
Connard nodded as though the manager were right in front of him. “So do I. The crews arrived nearly immediately to take her to Mission Hospital, so luckily there wasn’t much lag time.”
“Well, I spoke with the Mayor and members of the City Council, given the nature of this emergency. We’ll need an interim Chief of Police to serve in Harding’s absence. We’ve decided, since you’re her closest subordinate, that you’ll be offered the position if you would like to accept it.”
“I’d be honored,” Connard replied, sinking into his chair. “And I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Thanks for your willingness to take it on,” the city manager said. “I’ll have Human Resources issue a press release. Feel free to call if you have any questions.”
Connard could barely contain the satisfied smirk that threatened to snake its way onto his lips. “I will do that,” he promised. “And thank you.”
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