Cop and Call A Novel_When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds

by R. Scott Lunsford

  “But what makes you think there were two?”

  “No blood trails. The top half of the body was carried in here. Bottom half was probably left on another tarp.”

  “Cause of death?” North asked.

  “Not what you’d think. Knife wounds to the chest. Blood pattern indicates the shirt was put on him after he’d died and had been separated from the lower part of his body.”

  The two made their way toward the edge of the crime scene. “This another case of medieval torture, you think?”

  Baumgartner considered. “Well, it does resemble using two horses or oxen to rip a man in two, and I have seen other imagery or wood block carvings showing men being cut in two for punishment or execution.” he replied finally. “So yes. It could be copycat medieval punishment, although the wounds indicate the guy was cut with a tool. Probably an electric saw. His wrists show signs of being bound. I’d still like to have the rest of the body to examine.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” North agreed. He wondered where the lower half of the body might turn up.

  “I’ve been reading in the paper and watching on the news the investigation and court case involving our half a gentleman here. Will this affect other investigations involving child pornography you have on going? His court case will be over I assume.” The Dr. gesturing towards the victim.

  “Yea, its hard to convict a dead guy and even harder to convict half a dead guy.”

  “No doubt, these recent deaths have also been all over the news. The state coroner’s office is getting daily calls from the press on the cases. This is your second-high profile dead bad guy. The killer of those children the first, now a well-known child pornographer. This is the third overzealous killing. Do you think someone decided to take matters in their own hands and remove what they think are society’s problems in a more permanent manner?”

  “A viilante? Come on Doc. That’s the stuff of bad T.V. and cheap books.”

  Hearing a commotion, the two looked around and saw Acting Chief Connard attempting to push past a woman in a white haz-mat protection jumpsuit and blue shoe covers working the crime scene. North quickly inserted himself between the acting chief and the crime scene.

  “North, who is this woman?” Connard demanded, motioning toward the Tyvek suited woman.

  “Sir, that’s FBI special agent Rosa Messer with the FBI’s Child Pornography Task Force. Her team is trying to determine whether Ashton was killed to keep him quiet or as revenge for what he’d done. Sir, if you’d like to step away, I can explain further.”

  After being briefed, Acting Chief Connard told North, “We need to close out and solve these two cases. Fall tourist season is coming, and Asheville doesn’t need this hanging out over our heads chasing people off. City Council has been calling for answers.”

  “I understand, sir,” North said. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “You’ll do me one better than that,” Connard snapped. He leaned in and jabbed a finger in North’s face. “You’ll figure this shit out, or you’ll be out of a job.” Pausing before storming off he added, “or busted down to Kiddy Cop working in the schools.” The Acting Chief turned and briskly walked away, vanishing from the crime scene as if he had never been there.

  CHAPTER 23

  WEST ASHEVILLE, JOHNSON BLVD

  Old Alex Ledford wasn’t exactly a trusting soul. Now in his 90s, he’d lived alone ever since his wife’s passing. Back in his day, he’d been the go-to lawyer around town, thought to have amassed millions over the years. He was well off, to be sure, but with no children of his own, most of his fortune was tied up in scholarships and grants for kids who needed the help.

  Rumors had floated through the community for years of a fortune hidden somewhere in Ledford’s house. People had tried to loot him before. On this Monday, however, Ledford’s nurse arrived to find the front door kicked in and her patient on the floor of his kitchen with a bullet wound in his chest. His modest home had been completely ransacked.

  Ledford had been so secretive that detectives had a hell of a time trying to determine what had and hadn’t been taken. One point of interest was a missing ring Ledford had worn for decades: a gold band with a ruby stone and small flames around the setting. When asked about the ring, Ledford merely smiled and claimed it was a gift from the Devil for some legal work. But the old timers, mostly gone now, knew he had won the ring in a poker game by bluffing a former body guard to a notorious gangster who had received it from his boss when the gangster died in 1947. Yet now the ring was nowhere to be found.

  Jimmy Bentley arrived home late Wednesday evening. His wife met him at the door, her face twisted with worry, but not because of his longer-than-expected commute. Before Jimmy could ask what was going on, Linda uncoiled a clenched fist to reveal a gold ring with a ruby stone. Then she pointed wordlessly toward the table in the adjoining dining room, where a dark revolver sat on a placemat on the table. Jimmy picked up the pistol and opened the cylinder to empty the bullets. “Where did this come from?”

  “I found the ring in James’s pants pocket when I started the laundry. The gun was under his pillow.”

  James was the couple’s oldest son at 19 and still lived at home. Taking the ring from his wife, Jimmy examined it. He had seen it before and was well acquainted with its history. The news of Ledford’s death and home invasion had been in the news. Attorney Ledford had taken care of a host of legal matters for several generations of the Bentley family over the years. He’d even referred them to an expert attorney to represent their eldest in a few criminal cases, mostly drug-related.

  Jimmy cleared his throat. “Where’s James?”

  Linda answered, “I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I got up this morning. I don’t think he was home all night. And his bike is gone from the garage. I found his riding gloves in the trash. They’re stained brown.”

  James had returned last month from a court-ordered drug rehab program. Jimmy and Linda had been hoping desperately that he’d finally turned the corner. Placing the ring next to the revolver, Jimmy sank down into a chair. “James went with me a lot to see Ledford. I’m sure he would’ve let James in if he’d shown up at the door.”

  Linda took a seat across from her husband and folded her hands under her chin. “You don’t really think James could hurt Mr. Ledford—or anyone, for that matter... do you?”

  “I want to say no,” Jimmy conceded, “but look at this.” He picked up the gun. “I know Ledford had a pistol like this. He showed it to me. Even offered to loan me it when we went on the family trip to St. Louis years ago. He said you couldn’t be too careful these days and everyone needed protection on long trips.”

  “So, what do we do?” Linda asked, her voice barely audible.

  “We have to tell someone. James may not be involved in Mr. Ledford’s death directly, but this shows he is involved somehow.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. When the line picked up, he said, “Yes, I think I have some information on the Ledford murder.” With his fingertips thrumming his forehead, Jimmy proceeded to explain his suspicions.

  CHAPTER 24

  HAZEL MILL ROAD, WEST ASHEVILLE

  He knew he was close. It was a natural feeling. Once he knew what his assignment was or what needed to be done to repay someone for what they had done. He never had an issue with finding them. What bothered him was the unusual sense that someone else was nearby. He saw no one, but he knew someone was there. At the rear of an unassuming, boarded-up frame house on Hazel Mill Road lay James Bentley, his breathing shallow and irregular. His skin was sallow, and his eyes were closed. He appeared completely unaware of the world around him and the man standing over him.

  Setting down a plastic grocery bag with a few items in it he studied the scene before him. A half-full syringe was beside his dangling arm. The jittery girl who’d sold James the drugs had advised him they were stronger than usual, so he needed to go easy. He hadn’t heeded her warning—a stupid mistake considering he’d been clean for nearly 3 months, an
d his tolerance had plummeted. Mainlining that much heroin nearly killed him.

  His figured he may as well do James a favor and finish the job. Plucking the needle from the dirt, he plunged it into James’ neck and watched the young man shudder as he struggled to breathe. A final drain of the syringe into James’ neck wracked his body with convulsions and left him lifeless on the parched earth in the woods. Humming to himself an opera he had not heard in a very long time he reached for the plastic brown bag on the ground to complete what he had started. James receiving punishment and Mr. Ledford revenge for his untimely death at James’s hands.

  West of the city limits

  Lieutenant North was cruising on Highway 63, just outside the city limits, with Chaplin David Warren in the passenger seat. Death notifications were an unpleasant fact for both, one tasked with determining who—or what—caused a victim’s death, the other expected to comfort a grieving family.

  North couldn’t shut his brain off. The call had initially sounded like a typical OD, especially given the recent uptick in overdoses that had led to the organization of a statewide task force in hopes of stemming the flood. Dr. Baumgartner had again followed up with North, asking him to come to the death scene. It was after 5 p.m. when North arrived on Hazel Mill Road. He met the medical examiner halfway to the scene and fell into step alongside him. “Okay, doc, what’s the issue with this one?” he’d asked.

  Dr. Baumgartner had stayed quiet until the victim’s body came into view. He pointed: the man’s bare chest and extremities were covered in a mixture of brown and white liquid. Beside him were a pair of jars, each marked HONEY, and two milk cartons. “Somebody must’ve done this either postmortem or not long before he died.”

  North had listened as the doctor explained something called Scaphism. “It’s an ancient Persian method of torture and execution,” Dr. Baumgartner said. “Milk and honey were poured on a restrained subject to attract insects that would literally eat the victim. Shakespeare wrote about it in The Winter’s Tale.”

  “But our guy wasn’t restrained,” North pointed out.

  “The Heroin might’ve been the restraint,” Dr. Baumgartner countered.

  Identifying the subject by his ID in a wallet found at the scene, North was now on the way to the young man’s home to notify his parents, North couldn’t have predicted the reception at their door. Jimmy Bentley interrupted him before he could even explain the chaplain’s presence. He held up a hand to halt North’s spiel, saying, “About time. I expected you two days ago. I was going to take the things to the Sheriff’s office myself if I didn’t hear from you today.”

  North and the chaplain merely looked at each other, confused.

  “The ring and pistol I called you guys about two days ago,” Jimmy prompted. “From Mr. Ledford?”

  “Sir, may we come in?” North asked, still unsure of what Jimmy was speaking. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 25

  RETURN TO HAZEL MILL ROAD

  Extra checks were a pain in the ass. Officer Jones hated them. The empty house on Hazel Mill had always been a flophouse for drug users and runaways. Driving by the sagging front porch, Jones caught a glimpse of movement—someone stepping around to the back of the house as he approached.

  The property was marked NO TRESPASSING, so he knew whoever was there wasn’t supposed to be. Jones climbed out of his patrol car and ducked around the overgrown bushes that decorated the front in search of whoever might be on the property. He spotted a man in neat pressed jeans, boots, and a black military-style jacket. The man followed Jones’ directives and willingly submitted to cuffs and being placed into the back of the police car. Calling in to dispatch, he advised what he had located, stating he was taking the subject to the detention center on a charge of trespassing. Before Jones could replace the car’s radio microphone his sergeant called the officer and advised him to take his prisoner to the police station to meet with detectives. His prisoner said nothing from the time Jones corralled him to the time they arrived at the station. Jones wondered if the guy was just another druggie from the local community, but he figured the man would have to explain himself sooner or later and it was now in the hands of the detectives saving him time and paperwork.

  At the police department, Detective Willis was assigned to the interview room. After 20 minutes of questioning he’d only learned that the kid’s name was Edward Norton, from Tennessee originally, and he moved around a lot. He also smiled constantly, which was more unnerving than Willis would have thought. An emptying of the guy’s pockets yielded little more than a Tennessee driver’s license, a wallet with $60, and an old coin sealed in a plastic case.

  Lieutenant North, notified of the arrest occurring at one of his crime scenes was watching the monitors from outside the room, cringed. He’d had some bad experiences with old coins and was none too eager to travel that road again.

  A cross check found that apparently Mr. Norton had been mentioned in case notes and field interviews had been completed on him in the vicinity of several of the recent homicide cases—not implicated, but found wandering near the scenes sometimes a few days afterward. Just like today.

  North’s phone buzzed. “Lieutenant, you got a subject being interviewed in the office?” asked the evening police information desk civilian employee.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “His lawyer’s here.”

  “What?” North asked. “Why does he even have a lawyer, and how’d they figure out the kid’s even here?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the admin answered. “Says his name is Malachi King.”

  “Bring him to my office, please. I’ll meet him there.”

  A uniformed patrol Officer delivered the man to North’s office a minute later. “Mr. King,” North said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand, “what can I do for you?” Then directing the man to have a seat in one of the two red fake leather chairs in front of the Lieutenant desk.

  Mr. King smiled a wide, gleeful grin, reminiscent of the young man currently smiling away in the interview room. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m here to pick up Mr. Edward Norton.”

  “Why? He hasn’t asked for an attorney or a phone call. How did you know he was here?”

  “There must be some mistake,” King said. “I told your front office that I counsel Mr. Norton, not that I was his legal counselor.”

  “Okay,” North stated with a slightly suspicious look. “But that doesn’t explain how you knew he was here.”

  “No mystery there. I was on my way to pick him up and watched your officers put him into the car and leave with him.”

  “Well, he’s currently under arrest for trespassing. He’s going to jail. I don’t believe he’ll need a ride for a little while.”

  “Now, Lieutenant, do you think that’s wise?” Mr. King asked with his trademark smile. “Was the property clearly posted and marked?”

  “Yes. It was,” North replied flatly. “I was there recently and saw the sign. It’s posted on the back of the house.”

  “Only on the back?” King asked. “Mind if I ask if it was posted on the front street side as well?” North paused to consider, and King interjected, “Let me save you some trouble, Lieutenant it’s only posted on the rear. The sign isn’t visible as you approach. I assure you, Mr. Norton was in the process of leaving the property when he was stopped by your officer. He was abiding by the sign.”

  North studied the man before him. “I thought you said you weren’t a lawyer, Mr. King.”

  King gave a short laugh. “No, sir, my expertise is in a different area.”

  “And Mr. King, just what is your area of expertise, if I may?”

  King offered a yellow card from his jacket pocket. “Reverend Malachi King,” North read aloud. Looking at Mr. King, he repeated, “Reverend?”

  “At your service.” King delivered a mock bow. “Now, if you’ve concluded your conversation with Mr. Norton, I would be happy to save you the time of taking him home.”

  �
�Home? And where would that be? I’m still not sure he’s telling us the truth.”

  King shifted and folded his arms. “I can assure you, Lieutenant, Mr. Norton does not lie. Everything he has told your men is the absolute truth.”

  “Mr. King, it’s difficult to tell if a person is lying or telling the truth if he’s not saying anything.”

  “Well, there you go. Sounds like your conversation with my friend is over and he’ll need transportation.”

  “Just where is home?” North asked again. This man puzzled North and he attempted to develop a motive by his actions “Tennessee? Mr. Norton’s permanent address is there. according to his driver’s license.”

  “Yes, but he’s currently staying with me at a church member’s home on Beaver Dam Road.” King plucked his business card from North’s desk and scribbled the address on the back.

  North decided he wasn’t winning this verbal chess match. “If you wait here, I’ll have a detective show you out,” he said.

  King grinned, clearly satisfied. “Why, thank you.”

  North left his office and returned to the TV monitors. “Any change?” he asked Miller, who was standing outside the door.

  “No, sir, he’s not said anything of value.”

  “Okay, have him taken to the front. His ride’s here. Actually—write him a citation for trespassing. Then take him out front.” North deciding to at least charge him by citation for trespassing and letting a judge decide if the property was posted correctly. He returned to the front of the station to wait with Mr. King. When the young man rounded the corner accompanied by Miller, North asked, “Mr. Norton, did you get your property back?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he replied with a smile, patting his pockets.

  “What’s that you’ve got in that small plastic case, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Pulling it from his pocket, Mr. Norton said, “Not at all. This is my mite.” Noting North’s puzzlement, he continued, “You’re familiar with the story in the Bible of the widow’s mite?”