Misty Mountain Murders and the River of Death

By O. Ray Knapp

Recently retired NCIS agent Billy Boy Boyd has just returned home to Tennessee. Hes looking forward to enjoying some free time, but that fantasy doesnt last long. His friend Blinky, an often drunk and bitter Vietnam veteran, has just called about an apparent suicide down by the river. There isnt a body yetjust a suicide note and the remains of a hand.

A search party is formed, and Blinky, Boyd, and his high school sweetheart, Smokey, start combing the area by the Nolichucky River for the victim. But its soon apparent that this investigation may be more than they bargained for. A missing girl, a jilted lover, the Mafia, and revenge bring Billy to a disturbing conclusion: that murder is the order of the day, and he might be next on the hit list.

In a novel filled with every deadly sin in a land of moonshine and legends, O. Ray Knapp sweeps you to the whitewater rivers of the high Appalachian Mountains, where the peace and tranquility of a small, mountain community is rocked by murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475961003

O. Ray Knapp

O. Ray Knapp has written features stories for the Erwin Record that garnered awards from the Society of Professional Journalists and the Tennessee Press Association. Since 2007, he has published a monthly column in the Erwin Record. Knapp and his wife, Frances, live in Erwin, Tennessee.

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Chapter 1

Well, that was odd, I thought to myself as I hung up the phone. Early morning calls about suicides were far from normal here in the mountains. Just when I thought I could get away from all that death, this popped up. I had tried to leave it all behind me, but I guess things like suicides and murders stuck with a person. Just when I thought I could relax, they followed me here too.

My friend Blinky had been the one to call about the apparent suicide down the river. He was talking earnestly about joining the search party, which seemed completely unappealing. Personally, I wanted to enjoy my retirement, not spend it doing the same things I was trying to get away from. At thirty-nine, I was young enough to still have some fun. So, for the moment, I ignored his urges and went about my own business.

The morning sun warmed the tree-covered mountains causing mists to rise here and there like smoke from small campfires. Crocuses along my walkway, partially opened from their overnight sleep, trembled and bobbled in the quiet morning air. A few bees, early at work, buzzed furiously as they struggled to fight their way out of the partially opened flowers with their cache of pollen. I walked to my truck and turned on the ignition. In a rush of feathers, a frightened murder of crows flew out of my nearby corn patch. The diesel pickup, now idling, quieted to a low rumble. I could hear the crows, hidden in the leafy branches of a nearby tree, raucously scolding me for interfering with their decimation of my few corn rows. Shifting into gear, I ambled down to Frank’s store. Today’s main goal was to see Bill Joplin about replacing some shingles that had blown off my roof during one of last week’s thunderstorms. He was the best handyman in the county, or at least the most reliable at showing up if he promised to do a job. At this time of the day, he was often at the store shooting the bull with other store loafers, before heading out to fix something for someone.

Aside from getting Bill to fix my roof, I was on a mission to get the best steaks for my high school sweetheart Susan, or Smokey as I called her. Well, maybe the yard should be mowed, but that could wait for a while. Apart from the crows laying waste to the corn, most everything was shaping up to make this a fine day.

Uncle Fred Styles threw up his hand in a casual wave of acknowledgement as I pulled up at the gas pumps. The old man wasn’t my uncle; everyone just called him Uncle Fred. He was sitting on an old wooden bench that had been anchored near the store’s front door for years. It was his favorite perch on days like this. Today, as usual, he had his old fiddle with him. The worn case displayed numerous scratches, dent, and was held together with duct-tape. The fiddle, I’m guessing, was at least as old as I was. There wasn’t a time I could recall Uncle Fred not having it. Even after all that time, the fiddle was in far better shape than its case; and if we were lucky, sometimes Uncle Fred would even get it out and play a tune or two. This morning the fiddle was idle, and he didn’t take a break to say anything to me, as he was in the midst of telling a story to a couple of teenage boys. I don’t know how he got a young audience to take time and listen to his old stories, but they seemed to be paying attention to this tale. I imagine it was due to some truth stretching here and there.

Being on the far side of eighty, some even called the old man the Last Hillbilly—a title he relished with considerable pride and a sense of entitlement. Even though he lived all his life in the most mountainous county in Tennessee, his appearance didn’t exactly fit the part. His silver hair grew down past his collar, and his long matching beard made him look more like a biblical prophet than a hillbilly.

As I was trying to decipher his old tale, diesel fuel squirted out on my hand and britches leg. I had forgotten the faulty automatic cut-off again. The owner had promised to get it fixed soon, and that had been last year or maybe the year before. A bit annoyed at this procrastination, I went on in the store to clean up.

Three different owners had put their touches and additions to the store during the past hundred years. The store’s south end, the original part, contained livestock and chicken feed along with fifty pound bags of dog food. Some canned dog and cat food were also stocked to placate the new folks that had moved in with their Toy Poodles and Tabby Cats. A new indoor toilet, mandated by state regulations, was back in a far corner of that area. This is where I quickly cleaned up. The moderately clean bathroom was a big improvement over the bushes out back, where we use to go. At least the new bathroom had a commode and a sink. I washed the diesel fuel off my hands with a sliver of Lava soap that never seemed to really fade away.

Hardware lined two thirds of the wall of the old part of the store and spilled over into a couple of aisles in the new part. There were canned goods, chips, candy, drinks and a bare minimum of milk, bread, dried beans and such in the new section, just enough to keep a person from having to drive to Erwin for the most basic food necessities.

For something to do, especially on a crisp fall evening and bitter winter nights, the store was sometimes packed to closing time as local musicians brought in a variety of their instruments. Standing near, or sitting on the sacks of livestock feed, they jammed for an appreciative audience.

In the new section of the store, and against the far wall, an all-important eight foot folding table, the Loafers’ Table, with its assortment of chairs was located near the coffee pot and microwave. Some of the local farmers and village loafers spent a considerable deal of time at the table swapping stories. For some, it was a refuge from Uncle Fred who, on fair days resided outside on one of the two wooden benches setting either side of the entrance door, to get away from one of his stories they had heard him tell before. For others, it was a place to do business. I’ve saw everything from pocket knives to homes and acres of land bought and sold at that table. I got a cup of coffee.

Standing near the gossip table, sipping coffee, I said a few hellos and how are yous to a half dozen men sitting there. Since I had lived in this town my whole life, every one of their sunburnt, worked faces were familiar to me. They were dressed in their normal garb of blue jeans or overalls, Dollar Store shirts, and most were sporting new ball caps with an inscription that read, Hanson for Sheriff. Some were drinking coffee in a half awake manner. Others were chewing tobacco and occasionally spitting in their empty Styrofoam cups. They nodded or spoke briefly and continued talking about blue mold on their tobacco plants.

Where’s Bill Joplin? I interrupted.

Ain’t seen him this morning, one of them briefly stated, and continued telling how blue mold had all but wiped out his tobacco crop.

As no one knew his whereabouts and I didn’t know a cure for blue mold, I went back outside and sat down by Uncle Fred who was ending the story. I sipped my coffee and listened along with the boys as he finished his tale.

Yes sir, there were thirteen of ’em not much older than you. He nodded at the boys. They lined ’em up in a straight row and shot each in turn, killed all of ’em… sure did. He shook his head in pity for the long departed Union sympathizers before continuing, Well, the rebels were thoughtful enough to ask if they had any last words. One boy, a thirteen year old, asked that someone to tell his mother that he loved her; then they shot him.

The taller boy looked stunned. They shot kids?

Well, they shot him. He was big for his age, and practically fourteen. A kid with a gun can kill a man just as dead as any grown man. They were not going to let him go just because he was a young’un.

I glanced at the boy who had asked the question, and he was nodding in agreement, his face ashen.

There was usually some truth in Fred’s stories. From most accounts, this one actually happened at the height of the Civil War, and not ten miles from where we were sitting.

I guessed the boys were from the city, visiting their country relatives, and may have heard all of Fred’s tales they cared to, as the short one asked, Is this the only store in this little burg?

Yep. Uncle Fred affirmed his fears. Go back to your uncle’s and get some fishing poles. There’s trout in that creek across the road, he suggested.

The boys looked at each other and went over to the coke machine. They dropped some quarters in, punched a button, and took their drinks to the other bench. Apparently they weren’t in a hurry to go fishing.

Uncle Fred turned to me. What are you up to, Billy?

I’m headed down to Chestoa Park. Blinky has been calling all morning wanting me to help him search for some guy, I said, remembering the strange call from this morning. He said something about a man leaving a suicide note in a van that’s parked down there. He said a lot of people were there, and they were fixing to start a search.

Hmm, Uncle Fred pondered this new information.

Personally, I don’t think it’s suicide. Men don’t walk out in a river to drown. They stick a gun in their mouth, pull the trigger and blow the top of their head off. I think it’s best if I just stay far away from that mess. I looked at him for some type of confirmation, but his expression didn’t change.

Besides, I’ve got a leak to fix in my roof before it rains. My yard needs mowing, and I’ve got a little cleaning up to do around the house. I turned to look at him again, wanting him to agree that I shouldn’t go traipsing off on a wild goose chase.

He ignored that and uttered some kind of sound, like harrumph. Clearing his throat, he said, I thought you had a woman coming around lately to do your house chores.

I ignored him. I could tell his thoughts were drifting back to the man’s odd suicide. He was more interested in that than any gossip he had heard about me and Smokey. He may have hung around the store as much for news and gossip, as to tell his own stories. He took pride in knowing something about everything that happened between Asheville and Johnson City.

Who was it?

I’ll let you know when I know, I said.

I had misgivings about this search. It was more than misgivings there was actually an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach and a sour taste in the back of my throat. I had experienced this feeling of dread on more than one occasion. But, this was just a search for a missing person or possibly for someone that drowned. So, I shunted that foreboding feeling aside as just a remembrance of some dangerous assignments that I had been a party to in the past.

I had been a member of the Naval Intelligence Service during a majority of my time in the service and a special agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service for a few years prior to my retirement.

Other than having the nerve, intelligence, and physical qualifications, my strong belief in justice and punishment for crimes led me into that profession. I was an expert at infiltrating criminal elites, but being a chameleon is a nerve-racking profession. Looking back, I suppose it was getting to me. I was now a retired Navy chief. I had gotten into the NIS long ago when it was comprised mainly of military personnel. When it changed over to nearly a hundred percent civilian, I was granted a grandfather clause due to my years of experience and allowed to remain onboard. The upper echelon also considered me an expert at infiltrating groups of wrongdoers and ferreting out their illegal activities. That may have been the factor that saved my job.

I’m not exactly sure what triggered my decision to retire. Maybe, it was because all the NCIS agents I worked with on the last case were new to me. They came from a different breed than the old crew. All of them were civilians and had various kinds of sophisticated, specialized training. I had modestly but diligently obtained a Bachelor of Science Degree in Criminal Justice. But these kids had degrees that made mine pale in comparison. All of them had advanced schooling that ranged from computer science, to forensics, and most things in between. Their vast array of schoolbook learning gave them a snobby, superior attitude.

I recalled my last mission. We had just busted a Coast Guard Lieutenant for smuggling some bales of marijuana. I had been the mole in this operation, and when the lieutenant was finally in custody, this uppity NCIS guy took it upon himself to question me repeatedly. He wanted to know if I had squirrelled a bale of marijuana away for myself. Obviously, school learning didn’t teach these brats respect for someone with more experience than all of them put together.

For the most part, I was just burned out. I was tired of danger and intrigue I wanted to forget all this gangbuster stuff and go home to my Tennessee hills and sit on a creek bank with a cane fishing pole in my hands. That question and answer session may have been the coup de grâce that ended my career with the NCIS. I put in for retirement the following week.

Take care, I said to Uncle Fred.

Reluctantly, I got in my truck and headed to the park. That type of stuff was all behind me now, and I didn’t want to be involved with it again. This searching for the body of a suicide victim, I certainly hoped, was all the police type work that I was going to do today.

Chapter 2

I turned off River Road at Uncle Johnny’s, a small store and hostel. Turning left, I crossed the Chestoa Bridge spanning the Nolichucky River, just shy of Chestoa Park. Three separate bouquets of plastic flowers were securely affixed to the bridge handrail as a memorial to the river’s latest victims.

The Nolichucky is relatively small as far as White Water Rivers go. It runs a hundred miles from the headwaters at Mount Mitchell, North Carolina to its mouth, at Dandridge, Tennessee. The part of it, beginning near Poplar, North Carolina and running to just past Erwin, Tennessee is considered the most dangerous. Beginning at Poplar, the river flows through the deepest gorge east of the Mississippi. Whitewater erupts over jagged rocks at speeds of twenty to twenty-five knots along some of the steeper gradients, about as fast as the water feeding Niagara Falls. Even experienced whitewater rafters agree the gorge is dangerous.

The river doesn’t have to be at flood stage for the gorge to be unsafe, but being at that stage, the dark water running through the gorge is especially dangerous. It was at flood stage the day those three kids drowned. Their raft overturned where a ridge stretched all the way across the river and created a rushing waterfall. The ridge (or escarpment as the river guides call them) was only three or four feet high at the point the kids went over, but the swift current created frothing, unbeatable rapids. Their raft tumbled end over end, in the light, air filled water. The kids were spilled out and the undercurrents sucked them right to the bottom. They were held there too long. The very bottom currents, flowing outward, pushed them from the hole within a few minutes too late. They were spotted floating face down beneath this bridge with their life vests securely fastened. The river reminded me of that day. I began to fear that drowning oneself in the river was far easier than I had first suspected. I pushed the thought aside as I pulled in at the park, which was teeming with potential searchers.

Sandwiched between the river and Jones Branch Road, there’s not much to the wooded area. The park is located on a narrow, wooded strip along the north side of the river just outside Erwin. Though small, the park’s amenities are comprised of a set of restrooms, a parking area, a few grills and picnic tables. These were perfect for a simple outing. Taking advantage of this perfect place, park officials had put out a steel, padlocked barrel for visitors to pay their parking fees. There’s a railroad trestle a couple of hundred yards upstream of the park with the railroad running parallel to the park itself. On most days at four and infrequently up to eight o’clock or so, the old engine charges down the track while the engineer practically lays on the horn. The road that goes under the trestle and through the park continues for about a mile before it dead ends at a rafting camp.

A blacktopped area across the road from the park provides a place for busses to park and take on passengers that have rafted through the gorge. Most of those rafters come ashore at this spot. Unofficially, the bus parking area serves as a lovers’ lane after dark.

A few of the searchers were people I knew; some of the sheriff’s deputies, and members of the Unaka Mountain Rescue Team. These folks were mixed