King Street: The Severna Bridge

By Dr. Robert E. Sylvester

Emerson Sinclare is a detective of the Holy CityCharleston, South Carolina, known as one of the first cities in America. It is steeped in tradition, with family names that go back before the Revolutionary War. Even today, the markers of history can still be found on every street corner. But hidden beneath the citys southern roots and hospitality lies a different storyone of crime, as might be found in any other twenty-first-century city in America.

Sinclare is never lacking in cases. Recently a young girl jumped off the citys famous bridge. Another young man was found with his throat slit. And then theres the still unsolved murder of Sinclares own wife. This last one haunts him, but he continues to hunt the criminals of his city with no mercy, following his own rules and using instinct to understand the criminal mind.

For Sinclare, there is no class distinction; everyone is suspect when it comes to murder. Hell need all his knowledge of human nature to solve this newest murder. But things get personal as Sinclare suspects a recent death is somehow related to his wifes cold case. Even in the Holy City, evil abounds. Power and greed will shake Charleston to its core.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458215789

Dr. Robert E. Sylvester

Dr. Robert Sylvester studied at the Pasadena Playhouse College of Theatre Arts in California and then received bachelor’s and master’s degrees in fine arts from the University of Miami. After eighteen years in broadcasting, Sylvester entered medical school. He is a practicing doctor, a Methodist pastor, and a colonel in the Tennessee State Guard. He currently lives in South Carolina.

Book preview

ISLE OF PALMS

A FAMILY AFFAIR

D ETECTIVE SINCLARE AND Cassie made their way back down the hallway, Cassie’s heels making striking noises as they walked. Upon reaching the door where they had first entered the building, Cassie pushed on the lock handle and opened the door, allowing it to hit the wall. It had stopped raining. As they reached the car, Sinclare leaned against the roof after he opened the driver’s door. As Cassie was about to enter the passenger side, he stopped her by saying, I have already made this trip out to the Isle of Palms. I’ve met with the Singletons. But this … Man, what a tangled web. He slid into the driver’s seat, and Cassie jumped in as he started the car. After revving the motor, he performed the same backing up maneuver he did in the parking at King Street. He changed gears and drove out of the parking lot; again spinning the tires in the pro cess.

After proceeding South on Comings Street and turning left on Calhoun, Detective Sinclare focused on where he was going while mulling over the turn of events that had just occurred at the morgue.

What time do you have? he asked as he shifted, moving the car through the city.

As they crossed St. Phillip Street, Cassie responded, Five o’clock.

I need another cup of joe, he said as he lit a cigarette. We’ll cross the bridge and hit Benny’s across the river. I ain’t goin’ to no Starbucks—not on my pay. Besides, they don’t give free coffee to cops like they used to in the old days.

The Vette crossed King Street, and Marion Park on the left went by in a blur. He down shifted as he approached the next intersection at Calhoun and Meeting Streets, and then without coming to a stop, he continued for three more blocks. The area was surrounded by old houses, and some had lost their original charm because time has taken its toll.

How did Mr. Singleton take the news the first time? asked Cassie as they made their way toward East Bay.

About the same way he is going to take this bit of news, only ratchet it up even more, Emerson said.

This is too weird. A brother and a sister murdered the same way, and Dr. Isaac thinks the fetus was the result of sibling love. Strange family, Cassie said, holding on as the car began to turn left on East Bay. "There has got to be some connection here. I mean, why are two people from the same family murdered some twenty-four hours apart, with the murder scenes so close together? I’ve seen strange, but this is really strange, even for historical Charleston."

Historically, I bet this town has seen its share of twisted crimes, Emerson said as he adjusted the car after turning on East Bay. Off in the distance he could see the lights of the bridge as it rose high over the river during the early morning hours. It was mesmerizing, and Emerson would often peer up at the bridge and marvel at its architecture. The cables spanned the bridge in two directions, like fans. The roadway was cantilevered and was six lanes wide. Traffic was continuous, with the headlights giving off the appearance of a string of pearls crossing the Cooper River.

The Port of Charleston on his right was a vast area of stacked trailers and pod containers waiting either to be loaded onto ships or picked up by trucks for delivery. At this time of the morning, just as the sun peeked over the horizon in the eastern sky, it looked like a city within a city. Much of what was shipped into Charleston were viable goods, but there was always the element of surprise because it was also a haven of foreign trade that had implications of crime.

Always on the lookout, Detective Sinclare scanned the area for elements of wrongdoing. Many a night he and Cassie had sat in this very car on stakeouts waiting for something to go down. The biggest problems were drugs, contraband, and human trafficking. He was always trying to connect the dots of crime, and over the years he always found a relationship between some illegal activity in this yard and the crimes on the streets.

He gunned the Corvette as he approached Wonders Way, which led up to the bridge. The Ravenel Bridge was built out of necessity, replacing the old Grace Bridge that served the city for over seventy years, linking Charleston with Mount Pleasant. Later the Pearman Bridge was built alongside the Grace, but both bridges became obsolete. After the Ravenel Bridge was in operation, the two older bridges were dismantled. Upon rounding the curve, Emerson could see the twin spires that supported the six lanes and the fanned-out cables that supported the super structure.

Every time I cross this bridge, Emerson said, I can’t help but think to myself what a piece of work it is, yet most of the time I am up here is because of some incident, just like tonight.

How come with all of the traffic that crosses this thing, no one saw what happened? asked Cassie. I mean, look at it right now. With the bright lights, it is lit up like a Christmas tree. And yet not one witness.

Or no one is willing to claim that they saw anything, Emerson replied.

As the two of them approached to crest of the bridge, Cassie asked, Where exactly did she jump—or was thrown?

Detective Sinclare slowed the car. There was no traffic behind him, and so he pulled over to the far right lane at the top of the bridge and said, Let’s get out and take a look.

Up here? she asked, her voice going slightly higher in pitch.

Yeah, right here. You want to see where it happened, don’t you?

Okay … Okay, Cassie replied as she opened the door even before the car stopped. The wind certainly picked up on top of the bridge.

Emerson turned on his flashers, opened the door, and watched the limited traffic pull over to the center lane. He got out of the car and walked around behind his vehicle and over to the railing where Cassie was standing, although not as close to the edge as he was.

The wind is a little hefty up here, Cassie remarked, paying more attention to the sway than to the scene.

Yeah, we’re 186 feet above the water at this point. She was thrown from here. Emerson turned around and leaned against the railing,

Cassie closed her eyes for a moment and then said, Don’t you go anywhere leaning against that railing. She took one step backward. She could feel the wind as it partially lifted her skirt, forcing her to hold it with her left hand.

Why do you wear those skirts and high heels if you keep holding the darn thing down? asked Sinclare.

I don’t mind you looking at my legs, but not the whole world. Besides, while standing on this bridge, I’m sure I’m giving someone a view.

He peered over his shoulder; the water was dark and almost still. One lone ship was making its way up the water way to its destination. I am beginning to think that she was murdered first and then brought up here and tossed over when there was no traffic.

Whoever did it certainly couldn’t have murdered her outside of the car at this very spot and then throw her over the railing. I think you’re right: the deed was done before she was brought up here, Cassie confirmed. No further evidence was found except for a little blood on the railing and on the roadway, right?

Yep, just some drops of blood. If she were murdered here, I would think there would be a larger blood pool, replied Sinclare.

I agree. No one found a jewelry chain either, I suppose?

Nope, he replied as he made his way back to the driver’s side of the car.

Cassie looked around, trying to find something that may be a link to the case, but there was nothing. You ready for coffee? she asked.

All right, let’s go, Sinclare replied. As he entered the driver’s side and put the car in gear, he said, What is the connection between all of this? It’s got to be more than just the brother and sister drama. I don’t believe these were random killings. Someone removed them because they knew something or saw something. They were close to something, or it was a revenge killing. But for what?

Cassie listened intently as the car moved across the bridge, now going downhill. As they descended the bridge, she watched the lights flash by and leaned her head back against the seat. The bridge railing went by in a blur. The sign for Mount Pleasant indicated a right turn, down the ramp to Highway 17, which led onto Coleman Boulevard. After turning onto Ben Sawyer Boulevard, Sinclare spotted a gas station on the right which he knew served pretty good coffee, and it was cheap. He gently turned into the parking lot of Dino’s Gas, looked at Cassie, and said, Do you want a cup?

Okay. Cassie opened the passenger door, stood up, straightened out her clothes, and adjusted her skirt. Again the tapping sounds of her heels could be heard across the pavement as the two of them made their way into the store.

Neatness was not in Bennie Lacrosse’s vocabulary, but he knew how to make coffee and kept the price down. As the two walked through the door, the odor of old stuff hit their nostrils. Bacon was already on the grill, biscuits were baking in the oven, and gravy was cooking on the small gas stove. It was a convenience store, but it was more than that; it was a haven for talk and news that could be gathered there without a newspaper, radio, or even a TV. Bennie knew the town, and he knew what was happening or about to happen.

Hey, Detective Sinclare, how’s be you this morning? Somehow his Louisiana dialect cut sharp when he talked. "You want I make you coffee, a fresh pot?

Bennie my friend, coffee sounds good, replied the detective as he lit another cigarette; using Bennie’s given name.

I see you brought the pretty young detective with you. Miss Cassie, how’s by you this morning, eh? inquired the Louisianan as he poured the coffee grounds in the grinder.

I am awake—I think.

Ah hah, then it will take my coffee to finish the job. Benny shut the top of the coffee grinder and flipped the switched, but it didn’t start. Sacre bleu! he exclaimed, and then he gently tapped the top, with no response. He hit it with a small hammer, and the machine responded. Ah, it is like a woman: sometimes you have to give her a nudge.

Sinclare said, Benny, you are my China, right?

That’s right, Benny responded.

What do you mean, he is your China? asked Cassie.

You don’t know I am his China? asked Benny.

No, what does that mean? she inquired.

You would have to watch British television. You see, Detective George Gently has his China—a friend who keeps his ear and eyes open, so to speak, said Sinclare.

I’m his snitch. I get information and pass it along to Detective Sinclare, you see? said Benny bluntly.

I guess so, Cassie replied.

Cassie and Sinclare smiled. After walking behind the counter, Sinclare removed two pieces of the bacon cooking on the griddle, holding them so they would drain the grease on some paper towels; he then disposed both strips into his mouth at the same time. By now the coffee was brewing, and the smell permeated the room, masking the other odors that wafted through the store.

Benny approached Sinclare, his eyes wide with a look of anticipation. You, my friend, are on a big case, am I right?

We’re working on something, responded the unshaven detective.

The jumper! Benny exclaimed. Oh, the news travels fast, monsieur. A beautiful lady jumps from the new bridge, eh? He got a little closer. Or maybe she was pushed.

By now the coffee maker was gurgling, indicating that the brew was almost finished. Sinclare grabbed two cups, one for himself and one for Cassie. After pulling out the pot and replacing it with another, he poured two cups to the brim. Cassie walked over to the counter to add her two spoons of sugar and two spoons of creamer. As she stirred her brew, she asked, Benny, do you know something?

Could be, Benny said as he also took a piece of bacon from the griddle and dropped it in his mouth, grease and all. People here have money, and lots of it. Maybe they can buy their way out, but we know there is still a crime. He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and then held the cup with his right hand. He looked at Sinclare and then at Cassie. There is one man on the isle that runs with power. Some say he will do anything to keep that power—even sacrifice those around him.

Who would that be? asked Emerson.

R. J. Singleton, answered Benny. He has his finger on the pulse, he said in a low, almost guttural voice.

Without letting on, Emerson looked at Cassie, took another swig of his coffee, and then said, So he’s the man, huh?

Yes, Benny said as he returned to behind the counter. "There is something about that man. His family goes way back, when it comes to the legal profession here in Charleston. I hear tell that his great-great, maybe even one more great-grandfather was not only involved with politics but the slave trade as well. My understanding is he put the city on the map, making Charleston as great as Boston or Philadelphia when it comes to transporting people in the hulls of ships, and he made a fortune."

Slave trade, Cassie said as she finished her cup of coffee. That was over 160 years ago, and it goes back even further.

Yes, but the trafficking of humans still happens today, said Benny as he lit his cigarette and then blew a smoke ring in the stale air of his store. He looked at Cassie and Sinclare. Just like that ring of smoke, they vanish.

Sinclare smiled and crushed his cigarette in the already full ashtray on the counter. It’s about time we get going. We’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.

Cassie walked over to the counter, gave Benny a wink, and then leaned over just a bit to give the Creole something to remember her by. See ya later.

Here’s back at you, my sweet, Benny said with a smile. The coffee is always hot, just like you.

Sinclare and Cassie walked back to Sinclare’s car. The sun was making its appearance over the eastern coast as its light began to see the outer city awaken. Sinclare put the car into gear and pushed down on the accelerator, giving it a quick punch. As he looked to the left for oncoming traffic, he could see that most of it was going in the other direction as the population made its way toward the new bridge that would lead them to their jobs in the city of Charleston. I can’t help but wonder about the reputation of Mr. Singleton, he said as he eased back onto the thoroughfare, gathering speed to keep