Alpharetta, GA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.
Copyright © 2021 by Phillip W. Price
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-6653-0162-6 - Paperback
eISBN: 978-1-6653-0163-3 - ePub
eISBN: 978-1-6653-0164-0 - mobi
These ISBNs are the property of Lanier Press for the express purpose of sales and distribution of this title. The content of this book is the property of the copyright holder only. Lanier Press does not hold any ownership of the content of this book and is not liable in any way for the materials contained within. The views and opinions expressed in this book are the property of the Author/Copyright holder, and do not necessarily reflect those of Lanier Press.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912278
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Photo of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation badge was given with permission of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
Author photo by Erika Crosby Price.
To Grace for standing by me; Zack, Erica, Addy, and Raelynn for their faith in me; and Shelia and Mark for their sage counsel. And the biggest thanks to Emma, who worked with me, corrected me, and encouraged me.
And lastly, I dedicate this work to the State Officers who perform their assigned tasks, often far from their homes, with little or no support, and are constantly reliant upon their will, determination, and skill to succeed. Georgia state officers cover an area of over fifty-nine thousand square miles.
“Whenever the laws of any state are broken, a duly authorized organization swings into action. It may be called the state police, state troopers, militia, the rangers . . . or the highway patrol. These are the stories of the men whose training, skill, and courage have enforced and preserved our state laws.”
—Opening narration from Highway Patrol
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue: Two Guys Walk Into a Bar
Chapter 1: The Storm Before The Storm
Chapter 2: Directions From the Top
Chapter 3: Getting Started is Sometimes the Hardest Part
Chapter 4: Lay of the Land
Chapter 5: Diving into the Shallow End
Chapter 6: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night
Chapter 7: One Riot . . . is Still a Riot, Ranger
Chapter 8: Use All Your Fingers When You Wave
Chapter 9: Closing the Gap
Chapter 10: An Arousing Development
Chapter 11: Bankers’ Hours
Chapter 12: When You’re Worried or in Doubt, Run in Circles, Scream, and Shout
Chapter 13: Once the Smoke Had Cleared
Chapter 14: It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over
Epilogue: Time To Go
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
From the time Georgia was founded in 1733 until 1937, law enforcement in the State was the responsibility of local governments. In March 1937, at the request of Governor E. D. Rivers, the General Assembly established the Department of Public Safety, the first statewide law enforcement agency in Georgia. As part of the Department of Public Safety, the law created the Georgia State Patrol and the Division of Identification, Detection, Prevention, and Investigation.
In 1938, the first Agent of the Division left in his own car (the State couldn’t afford to provide one) to work cases throughout the State armed with a handgun and a fingerprint kit.
In 1940, the name for the Division of Identification, Detection, Prevention, and Investigation was changed to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This is the name the agency has been known by since that time, in spite of a brief name change in 1974.
In 1974, Georgia Governor Jimmy Carter introduced legislation which resulted in the GBI becoming an independent agency, separate from the Department of Public Safety and the Georgia State Patrol. Over the years, the number of Agents has ebbed and flowed and, in recent times, has hovered around three hundred sworn members.
Special Agents of the GBI, like most state officers, tend to work alone in some of the least populated, and least policed, areas of the State.
I was employed by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for over twenty-nine years (twenty-nine years and ten months to be exact).
At one point or another, I worked in each of Georgia’s 159 counties. I was deeply involved in investigation of public corruption in Gilmer County, as well as in other counties both rural and urban. The Gilmer County that is described in this book is also an amalgamation of counties and cities in which I worked. The geography described for the area is accurate, and the relationships of the various localities are grounded in reality.
The characters are composites of individuals whom I have known and worked with throughout my career and beyond. The individuals who inhabit this work, both the good guys and the bad, are inspired by a variety of people, locales, and life events. Most of the methods and protocols described in this book are valid and appropriate for the time period. However, this book is not a history book, nor is it a textbook; it is a work of fiction.
PROLOGUE
TWO GUYS WALK INTO A BAR
Daniel Byrd was on a mission, and not one he had chosen. He walked into the lobby of the big motel on the outskirts of Atlanta. It was a typical mid-May day, and already hot in the South. The lobby was big and full of people. As Byrd entered the lobby, he took in the feel of the much-needed air conditioning.
There were several people sitting in or near the lobby area. None of them appeared to give Byrd a second glance, but he knew that one of them was watching for him. He fought the urge to give each of them a closer look.
Byrd was dressed in gray slacks, a medium-blue shirt, and a navy sports jacket—not too dressy. He was a couple of inches over six feet tall with a medium build and looked to be in his early fifties.
He ambled into the lobby area, glancing around to get his bearings. Then, he casually made his way down the hallway that led to the dining room and bar. He stopped for a moment to examine himself in the mirrors that lined the hall. His hair was neatly trimmed in a business man’s cut, and his eyes were clear. He noted that he looked tired, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon.
He gave himself a sardonic smile. He knew this afternoon would be difficult, but those were the situations he most often ended up handling. That was just part of the job.
When Byrd found the bar, he looked the room over and then chose a table in the darkest corner. He had lots of choices since the bar was empty at this time in the afternoon. The seat he chose gave him a good view of the entire space, and a better-than-average view of the hallways leading to the bar.
It reminded him of all the other times he had met people in bars. Late nights, high tension, and moments of panic. But usually those bars had been older, seedy rooms to themselves with a stench of stale beer and sweat, with sticky carpet floors and dim lighting to hide their rundown nature. He pushed the thoughts aside and sat down at the table he had chosen.
The Bartender, who was the only server on this quiet afternoon, strolled over to the table with a napkin, in no rush to serve a customer midafternoon on a Tuesday.
Byrd gave the Bartender very specific instructions about what he wanted. To ensure precise and accurate results, he slipped the server a hundred dollar bill as a pre-tip. Cash the Bartender wouldn’t report. The Bartender acknowledged the instructions with a look of confusion, but that di
dn’t stop him from turning around and heading for the bar.
Satisfied, Byrd leaned back in his seat. He had been in similar meetings in the last few years, forced to deal with unsavory people with influence. He expected this meeting to be contentious, but wasn’t really worried. Just wary.
The Bartender sat a cocktail glass in front of him, and Byrd took a sip. The orange juice was sharp to the tongue. He let the drink sit, allowing the ice to melt.
Byrd saw another man come into the bar. He thought the man looked like an expensive Lawyer, which he reckoned he was.
The Lawyer walked straight to the table Byrd had chosen. Without hesitation, he extended his hand. “I guess we’re both here early.”
Byrd wasn’t being paranoid; someone sitting in the lobby had alerted the Lawyer he was here. Which meant it was certainly a them, not just a him. It had taken the Lawyer about ten minutes to get from wherever he was waiting. They were putting some effort into this meeting. Good to know.
Byrd shook the Lawyer’s hand without standing. “I always like to get to a meeting early. I guess it’s an old habit. Gives me a chance to get comfortable.”
The Lawyer dropped into the seat across from Byrd without introducing himself. “I’m sure, with your background, that you feel better if you can get the chair against the wall. Comes with the job, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.” Byrd assumed the Lawyer was trying to give him a hard time, but he didn’t care.
The Lawyer eyed Byrd’s drink. “Well, let me get a drink, and then we can get down to it. If that’s okay with you.”
“Not a problem for me. I’d prefer not to drink by myself.” Byrd took a sip of his drink and waited for the Lawyer to order. The Bartender asked the Lawyer what his pleasure was and the Lawyer ordered a scotch on the rocks.
They waited quietly until the drink was served. Neither wanted to discuss what brought them here in front of the Barman.
Quickly, the Bartender came back with a medium-sized glass, half full of a honey-brown liquid. The Lawyer took a long drink. “The best drink of the day is just before the first one.”
After a quick second sip of the scotch, the Lawyer leaned in, as if to get the proceedings under way. He set his hands on the table, clasped in front of him. He was wearing an expensive watch, and a large class ring on his right hand. No wedding ring. His fingernails looked manicured.
The Lawyer opened the ball. “So, I assume you know what we are here to talk about. And you are aware that I expect to hear every detail of this. Anything you know, I can hear. Any questions?”
“Sure, I have questions. But I have been in the business long enough to know that I still won’t have any answers when I leave. I’ll tell you what I know as I remember it. I don’t have access to any of the records, so I’ll be shaky on dates and time.”
The Lawyer took a moment to savor his drink. After a long wait, he looked sharply at Byrd and said, “I understand that and am not worried about those kinds of details. My client is just wanting to know your version of the events. We don’t want any false narratives to get out there.”
“You think I have a dog in this fight?” Byrd said.
If the Lawyer had been trying to show Byrd who was in charge, it had not worked. Byrd wasn’t offended, but he wasn’t going to ignore the intended message.
The Lawyer spoke up. “Not what I meant. I just want to know what your version is.”
Byrd appeared to bristle. “I plan to tell you what I know. I don’t plan to put any spin on this. I am guessing that putting a spin on this story will be your job.”
“We don’t have to like each other. You just have to answer my questions. We need to be able to address anything your deposition might unintentionally bring to light,” the Lawyer said matter-of-factly, but now with a softened tone.
“I’ll answer the questions I think are a part of all this, but nothing else.”
“We’ll see. I’d rather not have to go over your head to force you to answer my questions. But I can.” His smile was too wide, stretching across his face, like an alligator hunting its prey.
Byrd’s eyes narrowed as he sat back in his chair. “Be careful is all I can tell you. Once I tell you something, you can’t un-know it.”
“I recognize that. And I’m willing to face the legal and moral repercussions of what you tell me.”
Byrd arched his eyebrows. “Moral repercussions? Sounds odd coming from you,” Byrd said.
Byrd sipped his drink and took a moment before he continued. He said, “I just want all the cards on the table. I don’t have an axe to grind, but I do have a mirror at home.”
The Lawyer broke eye contact and took another hard pull at the drink. He was probably figuring out how to adjust his strategy, Byrd thought. The Lawyer motioned to the Bartender for a second drink for each of them. “I know your life has been spent being Dudley Do-Right. I would argue that my client has done the same thing. You might not agree, but we must keep things in perspective. A life of service is still a life of service. I just need to know what might get out into the public. We have no intentions to hurt you.”
Byrd wasn’t moved. “None of this means anything. If there were crimes, the statute of limitations has run out.” Byrd paused. “Except, of course, for murder.”
The Lawyer sat up straight, but otherwise didn’t respond. Byrd continued, “As far as questions of character, all this is ancient history.”
“When you go above a certain altitude in life, ancient history can become much more current.” The Lawyer was offering sage advice to the public servant. “And as far as the statute of limitations, well . . .” His voice trailed off.
Byrd squinted at the Lawyer. He wondered if he was being recorded. He knew his own recorder was running. “Nothing I can tie your client to. Anything I know that your client might have been charged with has long ago timed out.”
The Lawyer didn’t respond.
Byrd continued, “Your client shouldn’t worry so much. Politics usually prevail over the truth. That should be some solace.”
“You are certainly more cynical than I expected.” The Lawyer was watching Byrd’s eyes, but Byrd knew they didn’t give anything away.
Byrd nodded. “I’ve seen criminals walk free and innocent people suffer for no reason other than being aligned with the wrong politician. The system of justice we have is probably the best in the world, but it’s not perfect.”
The Lawyer’s face softened. He said, “No system designed by human beings will ever be perfect. People have their prejudice and their vices. People like us deal with that more often than the rest of the population.”
Byrd shrugged. “So do the garbage collectors. That doesn’t make us special.”
The Lawyer smiled again. He was trying to regain the momentum. “I take it you’ve been burned before.”
After a couple of seconds, Byrd replied, “This ain’t my first rodeo.”
Byrd got comfortable, since he knew he was about to tell a long story. He wouldn’t be hitting the high spots; he would be telling the story in great detail. That’s what he did.
He shifted in the chair and spent a couple of seconds examining the condensation on his glass. He knew some of the memories he was about to dredge up were painful, even many years later. He had put it off as long as he could.
Byrd sighed, and then he started to talk.
CHAPTER 1
THE STORM BEFORE THE STORM
I was sitting at a table talking to a cocaine dealer named Swanson. We were in his house outside of Macon, Georgia. This was supposed to be a buy followed immediately by an arrest, what we call a buy-bust, and for once I had a cover team watching my back and waiting to come in and take this guy down.
Being in his house caused all kinds of problems for us, though. Even though there were Agents on a side street to protect me, guns ready, I was the only Agent actually inside. And even though I tried to prevent it, I still ended up behind a locked door with nothing but this dealer, whatever weapons he coul
d have hiding in here, and the trademark paranoia that came with his line of work. It wouldn’t be out of the question for this guy to have scouts outside, spotting my cover team and blowing what little backup I had to pieces. My dealer was a convicted felon, but that didn’t keep him from having an arsenal of guns if he wanted them.
I also was not sure how many people were in the house. I tried to keep my ears open for movement, but the house was old and the sound inside seemed dead.
And, to top it all off, I didn’t know the bug had stopped working. That was the way with technology: Sure as your life depended on it, it quit working. But I was blissfully unaware of that little fact.
If we did a buy outside, where the cover team could keep an eye on me, we had hand signals as a backup. Those wouldn’t work in Swanson’s house. I hated doing buys in the bad guy’s house, just because we had so little control of the situation.
I sat down at the kitchen table, chrome-plated with a cheap, slick yellow top. The room had a single bulb in the ceiling for illumination, and the kitchen stunk of rotting food and burned grease. I never understood how some major dealers, who made big bucks on the business, could live in some of the worst conditions.
I looked at Swanson, and waited for him to say something. I hadn’t thought much about the tactical situation, with all these other unknowns running through my head. He was sitting directly across the table from me. He looked like he weighed about 125 pounds soaking wet. He was wearing a wife beater and a pair of sweat pants. His hair hadn’t been combed in a while, and his teeth looked like they hadn’t been brushed since he graduated high school.
“We good, man?” I asked, in the hope of getting things moving.
“Are you a cop?” he asked.
I frowned. “Why are you asking me that?”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you a cop?”
I shook my head. “Hell, no.”
He persisted. “Are you a cop?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
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