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.”
This elected, laughter, and a few comments from the group of young people around the truck.
“One time on this side of the Mississippi there was some thinking that the Devil could fly. At least some of his associates could. That was what was called the Belled Buzzards.” Looking around the group for effect, there was no acknowledgment among the youth to having heard of a Belled Buzzard. Using the silence of the onlookers as an opening to continue his story. “The Belled Buzzard was thought to be the notifier of deaths, killings and bad tidings. If someone was to die that was important to the community or some tragic event was going to occur, a large Buzzard with a small bell would be seen over the community. Sometimes it would not be seen but heard high over the mountains drifting on the air currents. The bell ringing in the clean clear air.”
Pausing again he added, “True? Don’t know, many have heard the bell. Not just in these mountains but stories of them reported from Florida to Kentucky. Locally Mr. Robert Henry, a Buncombe County lawyer and Teacher at the Newton Academy believed in the Belled Buzzard. In his old age Mr. Henry started foretelling and predicting the future as he got older. He named the exact dates of death of both of his sons and himself. He was so sure of predicting the day of his death he dug his own grave before he died. Spent his last days writing about the Buzzard. They say his family heard the bell the day they buried him at 98 years old.
A younger female member of the observing group asked, “Preacher you ever seen it?”
“Can’t say I have, but I will confess to hearing the bell on a mountain top once or twice.”
“But, Preacher you aren’t dead” the same young lady said with a smile.
Preacher James looked around to see who was possibly close enough to hear, put his finger on his lips and said, “Shish… Not so loud, don’t want my first wife to know.”
Turning his attention to Bishop and shaking the police Sergeant’s hand “What can I do for you today, detective?” James asked, bending down to retrieve a bottle from his stash.
Waiting as part of the group of young people left Bishop said, “Wanted to ask if you’ve heard of someone.” Bishop accepted the bottle offered and cracked it open, taking a swig before leaning against the flatbed.
“Oh, I’ve heard about and seen lots of people in my life. Which one in particular you askin’ about?”
“Reverend Malachi King. Ever heard of him?”
“Lord, God bless him, Malachi. I haven’t heard that name for years. Met him a few times many years ago. Very serious man about his work, and his type of preaching.”
Intrigued, Bishop asked, “What type of preaching work did King do?”
“Well,” James started, “he was widely known for his demon expelling and devil jumping.”
“You mean exorcism?”
“’Round here, they didn’t call it that ‘til after that movie came out. Devil jumping is a reference to the book of Mathew chapter 8. Jesus commanded the demons in a man to jump from his body to a herd of pigs. The pigs then jumped into the river drowning. Devils and demons will do that. Jump from one person to another when they come under attack. That’s to be watched out for in dealing with them things. Now Malachi at the time I knew him, I was always a bit uncomfortable with how many Devil-possessed people he cured. He was a good preacher, though. Knew his Bible well. I understand he took to snake-handling, tent-revival preaching in the ‘70s. One thing that sticks out in my mind about Malachi is, one evening after a revival, we had a late supper in the tent during a rainstorm. I’d been asked to preach there myself. He showed me a small sealed glass vial on a chain that had some black flakes inside, maybe five or six. Kind of hard to see. Malachi told me they were shavings from a nail that was meant to be used to nail Jesus to the cross. Said it had been in his family for generations. That’s about all I can say. I haven’t seen or heard from Malachi in over 40 years.”
Bishop was thankful for this information, no matter how important it may or may not turn out to be. He said as much and grasped the preacher’s hand in a firm shake. “Hey, if you do meet up with Malachi, you’d best be careful,” James advised. “He’s doing the Lord’s work. And if you find he’s not, he will surely believe he is. A man with strong faith, doesn’t matter what that faith is in, can be very powerful. God bless him.”
Several of the young street kids had stayed behind listening to their conversation. One skinny young man with bright green hair and an overabundance of tattoos and piercings, remarking, “Snake churches? Man, you old folks are insane.”
Releasing the preachers hand Bishop started to reply to the comment. He knew that when Preacher James was younger then the young man making the statement and taking free food, Preacher James had been on Iwo Jima during World War Two fighting for his life. At times, empty handed. Before Bishop could respond to what he interpreted as disrespect, the Preacher laughed. “Nathan, 50 years from now someone your age will probably be saying the same about you.”
Grinning, the young man stood and gave the preacher a half hug and light slap on the back saying “Preacher James, I bet you’re right. I hope you’re here to see it happen too. Got to love ya preacher.”
The young man, and a few of the others walked off to finish their free meal in transit to another location.
CHAPTER 34
7 ELIZABETH PLACE
“Baker 8.” Replied the car two-way radio.
“Baker 8, go ahead.”
“Baker 8. Meet with Social Services and party at 7 Elizabeth Place. Further information in the call notes.”
“Baker 8, 10-4, en route.”
The Asheville City North District Police Officer had just left the intersection at Five Points on Broadway. This was Paul Gomez’s second day solo. He had completed his field training and was finally on his own without a training officer looking over his shoulder. As he pulled into his destination after a short drive, he was met on the front porch of a small off white two-story frame house by caseworker Melinda Stone and an African-American gentleman in a Navy uniform. EMTs wheeled out an old man on a gurney, covered in a flimsy blanket. The younger man grasped the elder’s hand as he was brought past. Gomez didn’t notice any movement from beneath the blanket in response to the man’s touch, but he did wrinkle his nose at the sewage-like scent that wafted up from the man’s body. If the man hadn’t been breathing and the condensation from his breath visible on the oxygen mask he wore, Gomez would’ve guessed he’d been dead for days.
The younger man in the pressed Navy uniform released the old man’s hand, saying to the EMS crew, “his escort’s not here yet. Can you wait before you pull out?”
Puzzled by the statement Gomez was about to ask, “What escort?” when the sound of several motorcycles turning onto the street interrupted him. Four motorcycles, pulled up behind the ambulance and four burly men dismounted and removed their helmets.
The Sailor addressed the EMS crew, “it’s OK now.”
After the elderly man was loaded into the ambulance, the small group of motorcycles and riders followed it out the street.
Now giving Officer Gomez his full attention the man in uniform addressed him “I’m Petty Officer Keith Logan,” extending a welcoming hand toward Gomez as the ambulance drove away. “That’s the Patriot Guard Riders organization,” nodding his head towards the four men on motorcycles escorting the ambulance down the street. “Pops is a Navy hero. He’s why I joined myself. He doesn’t deserve to be treated the way he was.”
The three standing on the porch watched the ambulance’s exit before Gomez said, “I’m sorry
he’s going through this now. Are you a relative? What happened?”
“Pops is my Grandfather. I’d just returned to the Norfolk Naval Station from a deployment,” Logan explained. “My Uncle Jerome was supposed to be looking after Pops. But I got a call from a cousin saying how bad Pops was doing, so I took emergency leave to come to Asheville.”
“The elder abuse investigation is moving fast,” Stone interjected.
Logan smiled. “Pops is a war hero, lots of people loved him. Turns out most everyone thought he was already in a nursing home, but no one knew where.”
“So, the abuse flew under the radar,” Gomez filled in. “How did things play out?”
“Up until a year ago, he’d received professional home health care every day. My niece was staying with him while she went to college. But she graduated and got married and moved away. She and her new husband decided to take Pops with them. But her dad—Jerome—wouldn’t let them. He started looking after Pops, or so we thought. The facts are he was never here. When I got the call about Pops’ condition, I came right away.” Logan handed Gomez a fat manila folder stuffed with papers. “Found some bank statements while I was looking through his things today. Turns out my uncle was taking Pops’ Social Security check, food, and benefits and doing Lord knows what with ‘em. And I’d left a Sig Sauer pistol in a safe in my old bedroom closet with some family jewelry and other stuff. Someone beat the door off the safe with a hammer. Everything’s gone ‘cept the safe itself.”
“Do you have the pistol’s serial number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll need to do a report for the elder abuse and any larcenies.”
“I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Dillingham in Investigations,” Stone chimed in. “He said to file a report with you. He’ll be sending his Special Victims detectives and forensic techs here. I was concerned the son would show up as we were getting Mr. Logan out of the house.”
Gomez followed the pair as they turned to go inside. He was almost knocked over by the vile smell that met him as he entered. Hearing barking from a room somewhere near the back of the house, he glanced at Logan who offered, “Two pit bulls. They’re malnourished, too. Looks like they were being trained for fighting.”
The new officer took in the sorry state of the home and wondered if every rookie was initiated into the department with this type of sordid investigation. Retrieving his city issued cell phone from his wide leather belt, he called police dispatch direct. Getting one of the new dispatchers on the line he advised, “hello this is Baker 8, Gomez on Elizabeth Place”
“Hay Gomez this is Bill what do you have there?” came the reply.
“Man, you would not believe this place and what this guy did to his own dad. They took the old man out and to the hospital by ambulance.” The rookie officer went on to describe the conditions and the need to have an animal control officer response for the neglected dogs.
“That’s horrible is the grandfather going to be OK?”
Gomez replied with a verbal invisible shrug, “I don’t know, hope so. The son who did this needs to get his for abusing his dad. Not to mention the dogs too. I hope the District Attorney and the Detectives stick it to him.”
Bill the Dispatcher agreed adding, “I am sure he’ll get his.”
Later that evening
He knew he was being observed again, watched by two this evening. Standing in the shadows he was invisible, even to someone looking straight at him, as long as he kept still. After midnight, his expected appointment loped up the steps to 7 Elizabeth Place. The man failed to pick the newly changed locks with a pin and resorted to breaking one of the front windows with a rock from the driveway. He emerged from the house empty-handed a few minutes later, having climbed through the shattered windowpane. The man appeared none too pleased about whatever he’d found inside. As he retreated down Elizabeth Place with a dejected shuffle in his step, he startled when another pair of steps fell into rhythm alongside him. With a jump, he hissed, “What the hell! Who are you?”
“Some might say a corrector of wrongs,” came the mysterious reply. “Others might say I’m just death.” The dark form laughed, loudly enough that a neighbor shut her bedroom window to muffle the booming sound of laughter.
CHAPTER 35
FLINT STREET
Max Taylor parked his work truck on Flint Street in front of the stone house he and an apprentice had been working on. Max was repairing stonework at the house and building an intricate stone wall that would eventually shift the home’s driveway to the side. While working on the project for the last four months, he’d fallen victim to two larcenies and several instances of vandalism at the site. Today, the wooden pallets in the driveway appeared to be out of place from where he had left them. He heaved a sigh as he exited his truck, telling his apprentice to go around to the side of the house and check for damage. The house stood empty because the owner was waiting until the first of the year to move in.
“Max!” He took off running toward the panicked voice that summoned him. He found his apprentice frozen before a man laying spread eagle on the ground, one of the wooden pallets on his chest. Large stones had been placed on top. Max struggled to haul the stones and planks off the man as his apprentice called 911, but even as they began working on him while they awaited EMS’ arrival, Max knew it was likely already too late.
Lieutenant North arrived before the medical examiner this time, taking a place outside the police tape to watch his team work. Dr. Baumgartner walked up beside him and noted simply, “This is not good.”
North didn’t meet his gaze. “No, it’s not.”
Dr. Baumgartner removed a small notebook from the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, asking, “Do we have a name? Do you know what happened?”
“Yes, his name is Jerome Logan. A canine tracked him to where he’d been staying on Elizabeth Place. We’re pretty sure he walked here. Stone masons showing up for work found him spread out on the drive with a wooden pallet full of rocks on his chest. He was dead when they got here.” He shook his head. “I read The Crucible in high school. This is some Giles Corey-level shit. Just how he was tortured and killed during the witch trials—pressing, they called it.”
“Pressed to death seeking a confession?” the doctor asked.
“Don’t know if he confessed anything, but he was suspect in an elderly abuse investigation and a bunch of felony larcenies and frauds.”
“Nice guy,” commented Dr. Baumgartner.
“North!” The two men turned to see Connard approaching, at which point the medical examiner left his colleague’s side just as quickly as he had last time. North didn’t have a chance to respond before Connard shoved a phone in his face. “What the hell is this?!”
Wanting to give a stupid question a stupid answer and say that’s a phone sir. Instead taking the phone, North peered at the screen, reciting, “Victims tortured to death.” He scanned the article quickly. It stated police were investigating homicides that were possibly connected; all the victims had been tortured to death.
“Who released this information?” Connard demanded. “What’s this about torture and the deaths being connected? I never heard anything about that!”
“None of it came from my office,” North replied. “The medieval torture idea was brought up in the case reviews. You’re welcome to them. Everything’s also documented in the electronic case files, which you can see online.”
“I told you to keep me informed,” Connard snapped. “Now I’ve got to figure out how to fix this.”
“Yes Sir.” “Do you want a briefing on the current investigation?” The Lieutenant pointing at the scene before them.
Acting Chief Connard huffed out loud reminding North of a baby calf. With that Connard spun around and was already halfway back to his car before North could say anything further.
Lieutenant North let out an audible sigh and crossed his arms continuing the observation of his investigative team at work before him.
CHAPTER 36
HAYWOOD ROAD COFFEE SHOP, WEST ASHEVILLE
Sarah exited the unmarked police car stepping up from the street to the curb. In her hand, a white business card given to her by the detective driving the vehicle.
The female detective saying to her as she got out “Sarah, call me if you hear of anything that might help us.” She said this to Sarah like they were old friends from high school. That tone and attitude pissed off Sarah too.
Not replying Sarah shut the car door and the vehicle pulled away from the curb. When the light blue four door cop car was out of sight she crumpled the card throwing it down and said, “Bull Dyke Pig!”
Still angry, she turned and walked into the coffee shop on Haywood Road to see if possibly her friends were still there. Sarah had been sitting with them earlier when bitch cop and the male thug cop came into the shop. They had told her they wanted to talk about the kid found on Hazel Mill Road. He had been a first-time customer of hers, but she did not tell them that. “Idiot” she mumbled, looking around the room at the spread-out tables and customers. She had told him her product was stronger than he was probably used to, he must have overdosed himself on the stuff.
She had tried to play the innocent little girl act. “Yes, she had received a call from someone at the time the detectives indicated. No, she did not know the person, it was a wrong number. Why had they talked for 4 minutes? Well... he sounded cute.” Finishing the statement with a coy look she hoped the detectives would buy. She had no idea whatsoever if it had worked or not, but she had been brought back to where they had picked her up and not taken to jail.
She saw three other friends at a table and went to sit with them. She told them about her adventure and how the cops indicated that the kid was somehow related to the other deaths she had heard about in the news and on the street. Ordering hot tea, after a few minutes it was brought over to her by the shop manager.
Cop and Call A Novel: When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds (Asheville’s Cop Series Book 2) Page 13
