Cop and Call A Novel: When you call for help don't be surprised at who responds (Asheville’s Cop Series Book 2)

by R. Scott Lunsford

  “How else are they similar?”

  “We were involved,” came a voice from the doorway. It was Connard.

  Walking into the room, Connard pointed out, “Most of the victims, we were already involved with. Officers were on scene and working the domestic violence case. Officers and detectives had already been working the elder abuse investigation. The felony DWI—she ran over an officer, has pending court cases, and took out Sergeant Wilson’s motorcycle. And he still acts like she ran over one of his kids.”

  North and Willis couldn’t help but laugh at that. Clearing his throat, Willis added, “The Ray kid in the armed robbery and assault… we didn’t get involved with that one ‘til after the fact.”

  Connard agreed. “An outlier, probably. There are so many cases that one anomaly wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  North interjected, “If that’s the case, then are we looking at a cop? They’d also have access to all this information.”

  “Maybe,” Connard conceded. “But as you know, we’re a transparent department. A lot of information is available online through public records. Not to mention the press. That’s my current issue, actually—every local TV station is requesting recordings of all our phone calls and radio traffic.”

  North had a sudden flash of inspiration and began leafing through files and investigative follow up reports. “That kid with the OD. What was it his father, Mr. Bentley told me? OK, here it is.” He pulled a paper from the file. “’I called you guys two days ago and haven’t heard anything from you.’”

  “He called the Sheriff Department County dispatch?” Connard asked. “The gun info never made it to us did it? Someone sat on it, maybe to target the kid for killing Ledford.”

  Nodding, North was already on speakerphone with dispatch, asking for Supervisor Sherry Ahern. “Sherry,” he said as soon as she picked up, “Mr. Bentley, the father of the kid we believe killed Mr. Ledford, told me he’d called in info about the murder weapon and Mr. Ledford’s ring into the sheriff department because he lives outside the city. Can you track down which county dispatcher took that call?”

  “Keep it quiet, too,” Connard interjected from a couple feet away. “We don’t want to tip off anyone if there’s something to this.”

  Telling the lieutenant, she would also need to let her counterpart at the Sheriff’s Department communications center know what she was looking for. North agreed that it would be appropriate. “You got it, Lieutenant. Hold on.” North stayed on the line until Sherry popped back in. “OK, we found where Mr. Bentley called the sheriff’s dispatch.”

  “Who’d he talk to?”

  “James Albright took the call.” Ahern paused. “He’s a new dispatcher for the county.”

  “The racist?” Connard asked. “The sheriff hired the racist?”

  “What?” North looked at his phone and then back at Connard, not following this line of questioning.

  “We were going to hire him, but there was an issue and he rescinded his application,” Ahern explained.

  Connard added, “And he’s a racist. He’s probably trying to get back at the department for not hiring him.”

  “Well, he’s working tonight,” Ahern offered. “I checked on it.”

  Connard pointed over to Willis who was writing notes on a legal pad as the information was being put out. “Forget that. Just go get him. I’ll call the Sheriff and let him know.”

  North responded to Willis’ quizzical look with a stealthy nod, but he was skeptical. For as much time and manpower as the department had devoted to this series of investigations, having a prime suspect suddenly in law enforcement circles seemed like a much too easy trail.

  CHAPTER 39

  ASHEVILLE PD CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION OFFICE

  North stood next to Connard, both watching the young man in the dark blue polo shirt with the Buncombe County logo on the closed-circuit TV. He was pacing furiously, from one end of the room to the other, just as he had been for the past five minutes. Finally, he plunked himself into a chair, put his head in his hands, and sat. “Sheriff’s on the way over,” Connard remarked to North. “For some reason, someone at our agency recommended they hire this punk, and the sheriff agreed. That’ll be looked into.”

  North glanced at Willis, standing at the interview room door, awaiting orders. “Give Albright his Miranda rights,” North said.

  “Yes,” Connard affirmed. “Get the interview started. I’d like a confession before the sheriff gets here.”

  James Albright looked up as Willis entered the room and took a seat. Albright noticed the Miranda form right away and stated, “I’m not saying anything. Or signing anything. I want an attorney.” He folded his arms and stared directly into the camera tucked into the upper corner of the room. “Connard, you can go to hell.”

  “Interesting response,” North noted.

  Connard confirmed with a grunt. “I’m gonna wait on the sheriff up front.”

  Albright didn’t make a move to sign the paperwork that had been slid in front of him. North’s phone, which he’d placed on the table next to him, began to vibrate. He answered immediately. “Sherry, don’t tell me you have all the call recordings copied already?”

  “I think we’ve made a big mistake,” she said.

  North sat up straight. “What do you mean?”

  “We pulled up the actual recording of Mr. Bentley’s call. Albright did take it, but he transferred it to the PD when he heard what the information was.”

  “But we don’t have a record of it coming in?” North asked.

  “Yes, we do. There’s another audio recording of the conversation between Bentley and one of our dispatchers on our system. There was no other documentation, no dispatched call. So, no call notes in our system. It wasn’t logged at all.”

  “OK. So, who did Bentley talk to?”

  “Bill Carson,” Ahern said. “I checked the schedule going back to the downtown shooting. Bill wasn’t working when the homicides occurred, except for during one. Although I need more precise times to be sure of that.”

  “Which one are you not sure of?”

  “The killing at the convenience store and armed robbery. I did call Margaret—she was the head dispatcher that night. She said they’d sent Bill out for coffee supplies that night.”

  “OK.” North let out a deep breath. “Where is he now?”

  “He went home. He’s living in Woodfin. I’ll send you the address.”

  “Thanks,” North said and hung up. He’d seen Detective Johnson greet Connard down the hall a few moments earlier. “Johnson!” he yelled. “Get in here! You’re going to Woodfin.” Then he turned and went into the interview room. Willis and Albright each startled at his approach. North leaned across the dirty cream-colored interview table and pointed at Albright. “I know you want an attorney, so if you answer one question for me now, it can’t be used against you in court. But it’s important. When Bentley called in to the sheriff’s department with information on Mr. Ledford’s gun and ring and his son’s possible involvement with the killing, what did you do with the call?”

  Albright swallowed. “I transferred it to the Asheville PD dispatchers.”

  North turned to Willis. “Let him go. Give him a ride to wherever he wants. I don’t care if it’s California right now—wherever he needs to go, take him there.” He put a hand on Albright’s shoulder. “I apologize for tonight. After you meet with your attorney, we’d still like to get a statement about that call, with the attorney’s approval. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience and misunderstanding.” And with that, North spun around and left leaving Albright and Detective Willis both at a loss due to the unexpected situation change.

  CHAPTER 39

  NEWBRIDGE APARTMENTS, TOWN OF WOODFIN

  Detective Johnson had met with a Town of Woodfin-uniformed officer in a parking lot across from the apartment complex before approaching apartment 208 and knocking on the door.

  Receiving no answer, Johnson shrugged. “Guess I�
��d better call Lieutenant and give him the news that he’s not here.”

  The Woodfin Police Officer held up a hand. “Hold on now. Let me see if security is still awake.”

  “They have security here?” a surprised Johnson asked.

  “Well, in a way. Let me check and then I’ll explain.”

  The officer went to another apartment on the ground floor and knocked on the front door. An older woman answered. After a brief conversation, the officer glanced at her phone, handed the woman a business card then ascended the stairs toward Johnson. “He was here,” the officer said, pointing toward a car in the lot. “That’s his car. He left with two men earlier this evening.”

  “Did that woman know the men he left with? What did they leave in? Did she see a car?”

  As if in answer to the question the officer’s cell phone still in his hand begun to vibrate. After glancing at the incoming message, the officer held out his phone to show a photo of a blue Ford Focus with a Tennessee tag. He swiped to another image, the three men. “Courtesy of Nosy Neighbors, Inc. Want me to e-mail you the files? She got four shots before they left. Mrs. Lowder sees everything.”

  Johnson handed over his business card with his e-mail address before pulling out his own phone to brief North on the developments.

  “That’s Malachi King’s car,” North announced as soon as Johnson had rattled off the plate and vehicle description. “I knew he was involved in this.”

  CHAPTER 40

  DOWNTOWN ASHEVILLE

  Bishop had attempted to reach Josh Warren with no success. The call went to voicemail immediately. Bishop figured Warren was working, doing one of his downtown ghost tours. It was, after all, nearly Halloween.

  Finding a crowd at the entrance to the Masonic Temple on Broadway, Warren’s chosen starting location for his walking tour, Bishop appeared to have been correct in his assumption. Warren’s voice carried on the wind as Bishop walked up: “Founded in 1875 and originally called Morristown, the name was changed in honor of North Carolina Governor Ash. We do know Desoto’s men came up from Florida, marching through in search of gold in the early 1500s, the first of an extensive line of Floridians coming to Asheville for its bounty.”

  The statement elicited some wry laughter from the surrounding guests. “What they did not realize,” Warren continued, “is that the gold in the hills was actually the color of our trees in the fall, creating visuals no mortal man could hope to duplicate. Now let’s be honest.” Warren paused, surveying the group before him. “How many are here from Florida to see the fall colors on the mountains?” About a quarter of the group raised their hands. With a chuckle, Warren bowed dramatically and declared, “The tradition continues.”

  Bishop made eye contact with his friend and gave him a beckoning wave. Without missing a beat, Warren swept an arm wide and said, “Now I will turn you over to the one thing that rivals the beauty of our mountains and is as sweet as Sourwood honey collected from the mountainside this time of year: my wife.” After an introductory twirl, he added, “I’ll catch up with you all in a moment.”

  Hurrying down the steps to meet Bishop, Warren asked, “What’s up? It’s awful late for you to be about.”

  “I just left Granny’s,” Bishop replied. “She thinks someone performed what she called a mojo hand or a root spell that got out of control, and it’s related to the recent homicides.”

  “She has any idea how it went awry?”

  “It might have something to do with where the mojo is now, or where it was placed.”

  “Do we know where that is?”

  “Maybe. It’s buried under a tree… something called the Town Tree that’s over 500 years old. Sound familiar?”

  A flicker of recognition crossed Warren’s face. “I told you about that. Remember we were talking about Judge Sondley and his writings? He wrote ‘The Indian’, where he tells a story about a young Cherokee who was poisoned and placed a curse on the area. He was allegedly buried under what was latter to become the township tree, because it was used to mark a border line. I really don’t think it’s 500 years old—maybe more like 250—but it still exists.”

  “Ah, right,” Bishop said, remembering. “Yeah, you had an old photograph of the tree. It was being used as a hanging gallows at one time.”

  “Exactly. Records show a respectable number of hangings did happen there. If the Indian curse story is true, plus all those hangings, there’s gotta be a whole lot of negative energy at that spot.” Warren thought for a moment. “There’s a theory that objects can absorb good and bad energy. I imagine it could apply to a tree, or even to the ground where a tree’s growing. What day was that mojo buried?”

  Thinking a moment, Bishop counted back. “Would be about six Saturdays ago at this point, least as I understand it.”

  “That’d be the same night the G.I.F.T. girls recorded the strange laughter in the West Asheville cemetery,” Warren pointed out. “And that’s not far at all from the township tree.”

  “Grainne said someone will have to dig up that mojo hand, then,” Bishop remarked. “If that’s really where it’s been put, then it’s probably supercharged with bad vibes.” His radio bleated. “Attention all units, B.O.L. for a blue Ford Focus four-door with Tennessee tags. Operated by Maliki King. Passenger Bill Carson, a person of interest in a felony investigation.”

  CHAPTER 41

  PATTON AVENUE

  Carson sat quietly in the passenger seat fidgeting with his kubatan key ring as the Reverend drove along. He glanced over at King and gave a small smile, hoping it would be returned. Willie Norton spoke up from the backseat. “Bill, you know, none of this is your fault. The same way years ago, it wasn’t my fault, either.”

  “This is crazy,” Carson said, tossing up his hands. “This stuff doesn’t happen in the real world. Something in me that’s doing stuff to people? No way. I don’t believe it.”

  Before King could answer, he spotted an Asheville patrol car pulling up to the intersection as he went by. King had been heading towards the post office to put a small package in the mail before leaving town. “Gentlemen,” he announced as he saw the police car begin to creep along behind him, “we may be delayed in our journey.” With that comment the interior of the vehicle was lit with a flashing blue strobe. Blinding anyone who looked directly at its source. Seeing that he could safely pull to the curb, King moved the vehicle out of traffic. Stopping just across from Pritchard Park, a small Greenway area, empty but for a few tourists. Putting the car in park he kept his hands on the wheel.

  Carson chimed in as King pulled over to the curb, “I probably know him. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No. Stay in the car. It might not be anything at all.” Keeping his hands in view he waited for the officer’s approach.

  Sergeant Charlie Wilson had just made note of the B.O.L request for a blue Ford Focus with Tennessee plates. As he pulled up to the intersection of Patton Avenue and Ashland Avenue, a blue Ford focus went through the intersection in front of him. “Repeat that tag number,” he said into his radio. The two matched. “I’m behind the vehicle,” he told dispatch. “Traveling east on Patton Ave downtown.”

  Meanwhile, at the police station Lieutenant North heard the vehicle call over the radio. He grabbed a light police raid jacket from the hook on his office door and took a non-direct route before pulling to a halt behind Wilson’s stopped patrol car. He had little idea of what—or who—he might find in the target vehicle, but he hoped this would prove fruitful.

  Another set of blue lights this time coming towards the stopped car from the front King, glancing in his side view mirror another set of lights joined the patrol vehicle behind him. Reverend King smiled, his disarming smile. Saying, “You ‘all just stay put for now, do as they ask, and this will work itself out.” The other two men simply nodded.

  A voice from behind the blue lights behind the car called out, “ in the vehicle, turn off the car and drop the keys out of the window!”

  Due to the possib
ility a homicide suspect or two may be in the vehicle and unknown if there were weapons, a police technique called a “felony stop” was being used by responding officers to minimize the possibility of injury to police, the public and the suspect.

  Reverend King did as told, ordered to exit the vehicle and walk towards an officer working with the voice shouting commands. He was cuffed and placed in the back seat of the marked patrol car. Norton was then ordered to perform the same routine leaving Bill alone in the car, waiting his turn to exit.

  North was none too surprised to see King and Norton emerge from the car as directed. He ordered that they be taken straight to the detective office and placed in separate interview rooms. Putting his attention back on the stop vehicle. He observed movement on the right side of the street. Three officers were approaching the stopped car from the opposite end of the street. Looking closer he saw the first officer was acting Chief Connard, followed by a patrol Sergeant and another officer. The three took up a position to cover the front of the vehicle with a better view of the interior. Sergeant Wilson was voicing directions to the last occupant, telling him that after exiting he was to walk backwards towards his voice till told to stop.

  Bill Carson was still inside the car. Although he was frightened and a bit confused, he knew well enough to simply wait and do as he was told. If he was in fact a killer like Reverend King had told him—even if he were under the control of a strange force, as he’d witnessed as a kid in church with his mom—then he would take responsibility for whatever had occurred, whether he was conscious of it or not. Realizing he still was holding his cell phone and key ring kubatan baton, he decided it would be best to leave them on the dash and not take them with him. Reaching up to place the phone and the 5-inch black baton on the dashboard he heard a shout, different from the voice that had been giving him commands. Simultaneously he saw a flash of light to his right and heard a pop and felt a shower of glass on his face. Then Bill heard nothing at all.