Backbone Mountain: A Novel

By Thomas H. Williams

College professor and fly-fishing enthusiast Dr. James Boyd Houston is accused of harassing an attractive coed who is enrolled in one of his classes. The dean honors his one-year terminal contract but refuses to approve his application for tenure. He will be out of a job when the contract expires. Jimmy begins a halfhearted attempt to find other employment, but his primary task is to clear his name.

State police trooper Peter Kowalski and lieutenant Sam Miller discover a young womans body abandoned along a lonely stretch of West Virginia highway. Preliminary investigation reveals that she was driving a rental car from Philadelphia and had been shot in the head. The front of the car is speckled with tiny gossamer-winged mayflies. Lieutenant Miller, an aging police officer with an eye for detail, pieces together the womans background and is surprised to discover evidence that leads him to the local college campus. The suspect is a well-respected botany professor.

Jimmy is charged with the murder of his student. Out on bail, he uses his skills as a scientist and researcher to analyze the evidence against him. An uneasy truce is declared between Houston and Miller, who is not convinced of his guilt. Together they travel the mountains of West Virginia in search of the truth. Their investigation leads them through the dark worlds of devious friends, property developers, and drug dealers.

As Dr. Houston experiences one catastrophe after another, he retreats to his mountain-top cabin. Unexpected help comes from the deans administrative assistant, an attractive young woman who is willing to risk her job to help him. They discover a mutual attraction as they search for answers and explore the mountains they both so dearly love. As the mystery deepens, Jimmy is led from Laurel Mountain to Canaan Valley, Blackwater Falls, and Dolly Sods in his search for the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524586669

Thomas H. Williams

Thomas H. Williams is a former biology teacher, public school administrator, and college professor and has a layman’s interest in botany and archeology. He is a lifelong resident of West Virginia and spends his leisure time writing, fishing and traveling. He attended graduate school at Virginia Tech where he earned a doctorate in education administration and is professor emeritus at West Virginia Wesleyan College. He is the author of four previous novels: Into the Mountains, Backbone Mountain, Blackwater and Bones in the Woods.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Thomas H. Williams.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017902989

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-8664-5

                Softcover        978-1-5245-8665-2

                eBook             978-1-5245-8666-9

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 by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/14/2017

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

This book is dedicated to my sons, Patrick and Paul.

Acknowledgments

When reading any book, whether fiction or nonfiction, readers demand and deserve factual accuracy. In this novel, I have attempted to faithfully depict towns, cities, mountains, rivers, and highways. However, all are used fictitiously. All characters and businesses are fictitious. State College, and the unnamed town in which it is located, is fictional. The Mayfly species mentioned in the story is real, but I have taken literary license as to its habitat and rarity.

I wish to thank T.M. Bautista and Janet Myers for reading the manuscript and making many excellent suggestions for its improvement. T.M. also provided the author’s photograph. I am grateful to Anita Craig for invaluable assistance with editing. A special thanks goes to Erin Greb for her excellent work on the map of north-central West Virginia. Appreciation goes to the staff of Xlibris for their expertise in making this book a reality. Any errors that have found their way into this publication are solely my responsibility

Williams_map_draft3.jpg

Map design by Erin Greb Cartography

Prologue

State Trooper First Class Peter Kowalski pushed his eastbound patrol car to eighty-five miles-per-hour. The speed limit was seventy. Signposts whipped by in a pleasant blur. It was one of the reasons he had become a state policeman. He could drive as fast as he wanted and not have to worry about getting a speeding ticket. He was the law. The four-lane, concrete highway undulated like a silvery serpent through the ancient mountains. Here and there it sliced through the highlands revealing layer upon layer of buff-colored sedimentary rock on each side of the cuts, interrupted with an occasional thin seam of dark shale. The steep mountains were covered with an unbroken forest of oaks, maples and other hardwoods. Houses along this stretch of highway were few and far between.

The clickety-clack of tires over expansion joints in the road almost lulled him to sleep. This mountainous section of highway was the last and most expensive to be completed in Corridor H. Thus, it was relatively new and would soon stretch west to east from I-79 in central West Virginia to Virginia’s western border. Only a short section in the mountains and the twenty mile section in Virginia remained to be completed to connect it with I-81and I-66 that led into Washington D.C. The state of Virginia was dragging its feet in completing its section.

Leaders in the two states were arguing about the funding for the road’s completion. Virginia’s politicians called it the road to nowhere and West Virginia’s said, tongue in cheek, they shouldn’t downplay their own value—Northern Virginia was somewhere. So, the four lane highway squeezed down to a narrow, winding road at the Virginia border. It was virtually guaranteed that a fast-moving semi would end up a twisted ruin on one of the road’s hairpin turns.

But, Trooper First Class Kowalski was oblivious to state politics. His headquarters was located just off the highway in a small town fifty miles west of the Virginia border. He only knew that he could drive east over the Allegheny Front—the backbone of the Appalachians—and be in Washington, DC, in under three hours; much less if he could take his cruiser and not have to be bothered by being stopped by other police officers. He mused about his last weekend trip there. What a time he’d had! He couldn’t wait to get back there and see Jenny. Oh, those city girls—he just couldn’t get enough of them. And, there were lots of things to do in D.C. It was fast moving and exciting. It was nothing like the dead town where he found himself stationed in these god-forsaken mountains.

Near the top of Backbone Mountain, his speeding patrol car whipped by a side road, and in the corner of his eye he saw the silvery flash of a car in the trees. It had been there when he started his patrol the day before and obviously had not been moved overnight. He flipped on his light bar and crossed the grassy median between the parallel lanes. A plume of dirt and grass spun from beneath his rear tires. The car bounced and bucked over the rough ground, fishtailing slightly as he pulled onto the westbound lane.

He drove west until he came to a cross lane and turned again onto the eastbound lane. He roared up the highway until he arrived at the turnoff and pulled onto the gravel road, into the copse of trees. A silvery blue Honda sedan was parked along the side of the road facing away from him, canted to one side where the right wheels rested on the low shoulder of the unpaved road. The passenger side door stood open.

Trooper Kowalski pulled to a stop behind the car and opened his door. He leaned on the door hinge and radioed in the tag number. He waited patiently while the dispatcher, back at headquarters, punched the number into her computer. He surveyed the scene casually. Damn, it was getting warm again. The winter had been harsh with record snowfall, but now, spring had arrived, and the sun was hot. One thing about living in the mountains—it was either very cold, or very hot. There wasn’t much in between. Fall and spring seasons were notoriously brief. The radio crackled to life, and the dispatcher came on the air. It was a rental car. Place of origin was Philadelphia. The car had been rented by Jane Doe a month ago and had been overdue for two weeks. No help there. It was obviously a false name. He tossed the radio mike onto the front seat and walked toward the car, circling around toward the open door. He unlatched the cover on his gun and peered into the back seat. It was empty. The front was empty too, but a woman’s purse lay on the floor on the passenger side. He picked it up and looked inside. It contained the usual woman’s clutter and a 9mm automatic handgun. Trooper Kowalski lifted his eyebrows when he saw the compact weapon. It was relatively common for a woman to carry a gun in this state where anyone could possess and carry a concealed weapon without having to bother with a permit.

West Virginia was a relatively safe place to live. Politicians bragged about the state having the nation’s lowest crime rate, but recent overdoses of heroin had changed law enforcement. In his ten years on the force, Peter had seen it all, from petty theft to murder. Although most people didn’t feel it necessary to carry a concealed weapon, rifles and shotguns on gun racks on the rear windows of pick-up trucks were commonplace, especially during hunting season.

He heard the wail of a distant siren. It was probably the Lieutenant arriving from headquarters twenty miles to the west. The old coot was a nosy somebody who had to stick his nose into everything. There must not be much going on at headquarters if he decided to check out a routine abandoned car. The patrol car approached rapidly and came to a screeching halt on the highway. He could hear the car back up and then pull in behind his patrol car.

First Lieutenant Sam Miller climbed heavily out of his patrol car and approached Peter. His uniform stretched tautly across his bulky shoulders, and he carried a slight spare tire around his middle. He hitched up his pants for the hundredth time that day and clamped his flat-brimmed trooper’s hat down on his shiny head as he walked. Except for his age, Lieutenant Miller looked and acted like a football tackle, which is what he had been in his youth. He was big and bulky and rocked slightly from side to side as he walked.

Whatcha got here, Pete? he asked. He knew that Trooper Kowalski preferred to be called Peter, but somehow that just didn’t seem to fit a police officer. Peter, for god’s sake. Why not Pete?

Just what you see, Lieu. Rental car, overdue in Philadelphia.

Yeah. I heard all that on the radio, the Lieutenant said.

How’d you get here so quick? Peter asked.

Oh, I was on my way to the office when I heard your call. Thought I’d stop an’ see what you had here.

Nothing in the car except for a woman’s purse. It’s there on the front seat. He gestured with his head toward the front of the car.

The Lieutenant pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket and gingerly opened the purse to look inside. It was right here on the seat, was it? he asked, looking over his shoulder at Peter.

Well no, it was on the floor there. There’s a 9mm inside.

The Lieutenant frowned, You didn’t handle the purse, did you, Pete?

Uh, yes, I did. There’s no crime here, so why be so picky, Lieu? Peter said casually. Lieutenant Sam Miller didn’t like to be called Lieu any more than Peter liked to be called Pete.

The Lieutenant straightened to his full six-two height and looked down on Peter. He was really disgusted with the poor police work he sometimes saw exhibited by his colleagues. You never knew what would be important at a scene like this. If a crime had been committed here, the trooper’s mistake could wipe out the only clues they would get, not to mention tainting any evidence they found. That could mean losing a court case, and Lieutenant Miller didn’t like to lose at anything. Instead of launching into a father-to-son lecture he just shook his head and returned to the purse.

Although he didn’t look it, the Lieutenant was an excellent police detective. He had never passed up a chance to attend training sessions and had traveled all over the East Coast in pursuit of crime solving techniques. Few of his colleagues knew that he had completed a master’s degree in criminology at the university years ago. At age fifty-five, he was beginning to think about retirement, but not seriously. He liked the excitement of being a cop, and unlike some other state police officers, he liked the tough cases. The younger troopers would rather be out chasing speeders than do anything mental.

He used the pencil to empty the purse on the seat and sorted out the wallet. He pried it open and looked for a driver’s license. Nothing. The wallet contained three hundred and fifty dollars in cash, in new crisp bills, and a few coins. There was no identification, only a few scraps of paper receipts and a small makeup case. He poked at the 9mm absentmindedly looking for a serial number. There was none in sight. That was all. Not what you would expect to find in a woman’s purse. Actually, it was all the stuff that was missing that bothered the Lieutenant. There was no house key, and the purse didn’t contain the clutter that built up in most women’s handbags.

Peter wandered back to his patrol car and absently began to polish the driver’s side mirror with his handkerchief. He spat on the cloth and worked industriously on a bug splatter. Lieutenant Miller looked at him in dismay. Here was a great mystery before them, and the man was more interested in cleaning his car than trying to figure out what had happened. Sam shook his head again and muttered to himself.

He walked carefully around the car examining the tires and ran his hand around the rim of the wheel well. Just the usual road grime; no mud or other identifiable soil. He walked to the front of the car and looked carefully at the grill and headlights. The front of the car was speckled with bugs. Little dainty flies with gossamer wings all of the same pale yellow color. Each bug was about a quarter of an inch in length. He took a small evidence bag from his hip pocket and fished his tweezers out of his shirt pocket. Very carefully, he picked a dozen flies off the car and placed them in the bag. Peter watched him curiously from a distance. Damned old codger! More than likely the car owner would sober up and come looking for her car where she had left it in a drunken stupor. What was the big deal, anyway?

Was the driver-side door locked when you got here, Pete? the Lieutenant asked.

Don’t know, Lieu, Peter answered with a sly grin. I only looked in the passenger side. I didn’t check the other doors. I didn’t want to mess up the evidence.

The Lieutenant nodded, ignoring the caustic remark. He walked away from the car, stood in the middle of the gravel road and looked back at it, scratching his stomach lightly. He walked down the road and looked at it from another angle, then abruptly walked into the trees beside the abandoned car.

His voice, a bit higher than usual, drifted back through the sparse spring foliage to Peter, You’d better come here, Pete. And bring that camera bag from the back seat of my cruiser. And while you’re at it, get on the horn and call the county coroner.

Peter pushed through the low brush toward the Lieutenant’s voice, his curiosity finally aroused. He stopped abruptly when the Lieutenant placed his arm across Peter’s chest to block his way.

Careful where you step, Pete. We’ve got ourselves a homicide.

Lying face down in the leaves and forest debris was the body of a slim young woman. Her long black hair fanned out from her head as if someone had arranged it there. Her short dress was hiked up over her hips exposing her black lace underwear.

Chapter 1

Jimmy Houston sat at his desk and slowly turned the pages of the Chronicle of Higher Education. Each issue of the newspaper-format publication weighed a quarter-pound or more. The Chronicle was available online, but he preferred to read the hard copy. His brow furrowed slightly as he concentrated on the position advertisements listed in Section B. Affluent colleges and universities advertised available faculty positions in large boxes bounded by dark lines, as if to set aside their territories and guard them from encroachment from neighboring ads. Lesser institutions made known their positions by use of brief blurbs located along the bottom of each page, arranged in alphabetical order by position title, separated only by an empty space or two. Section A contained scholarly articles about the functioning of higher education, the latest controversies, accomplishments, and concerns of academia.

But, today Dr. James Boyd Houston wasn’t in the mood to read scholarly articles written by cloistered professors in far-away colleges and universities. He had turned immediately to Section B. He ran a slim, slightly grubby index finger over the position postings for the week. The truth was, Dr. Houston would soon be in need of a new job.

Well, not exactly soon. The tenure procedure for college professors had not changed in the past hundred years. He had been denied tenure by the Professional Affairs Committee, which was composed of tenured faculty and the Academic Dean.

In the meanwhile, he would be frantically searching for a new position, all the while trying to think of answers to the questions any search committee would ask him as soon as he sent them his resume. Why were you denied tenure at your former place of employment? It would be the kiss of death. Even if he were able to come up with a plausible answer, they would be sure to call the dean for a reference, and that would be that. All those years of education and training down the drain. He would be unable to secure a teaching position at any reputable college.

That was the task before him. He called up the music app on his laptop and turned on its external speakers. After a series of satisfying clicks and grunts, they came to life. B.B. King was telling the world why he sang the blues. And now, I know why he sings the blues, too, Jimmy thought. Losing your job really sucked.

Jimmy slid open the center drawer of his desk, took out a single typed sheet and read it again for what seemed like the hundredth time. The message, written on heavyweight bonded paper with the college’s name and logo printed at the top, was short and to the point. Actually, it was brutally blunt. It said simply that he had been denied tenure on the grounds that he had violated the college’s policy relating to faculty conduct. The college would honor his contract for the coming year since he’d signed it before all this had begun—providing that he did not demonstrate any further misconduct. If he was unable to restrain his conduct, he would be terminated immediately. The academic dean had signed it. He could read between the lines; the college administration was afraid Jimmy would sue them if they didn’t honor the contract.

Jimmy turned the sheet over and could easily see, on the reverse side, the imprint of the signature as if the dean had pressed the pen forcibly into the heavy paper. So the dean was mad when he signed, huh? So what was new? The dean was always mad about one thing or another. And, now it didn’t make a difference one way or another. His job was gone.

Sunlight streamed through the windows into Jimmy’s office, tracing bright squares on the worn carpet. The windows were open and the spring air drifted lazily into the cluttered room causing the dull colored curtains to rise and fall. A swirl of dust motes danced in the sunlight. Birds in the sweet gum trees outside the window trilled nosily, and a squirrel searched the newly grown grass for overlooked seeds. It had been a hard winter, and now spring had arrived. Normally, Jimmy would have been very much attuned to the change in season, but today, he hardly noticed.

Tom Martin, whose office was down the hall, stuck his head in the door. Any luck with the search, Jimmy? he asked. His carefully arranged hair glistened in the mellow glow of the office. You have all year to find something, so don’t get discouraged. Tom had been one of Jimmy’s friends on the faculty, but this new trouble had placed a strain on their relationship. As a matter of fact, Jimmy felt a deep doubt and distrust from most of his distinguished colleagues.

Thanks for the support, Tom. I know I have lots of time, but I’m concerned about having this thing hanging over my head. I’ve just got to find out what’s going on.

Yeah, I know what you mean. Tom flopped into a chair across the desk from Jimmy. The chair was normally reserved for students who visited his office, usually because they were falling behind in his classes. Tom didn’t look like he really cared much about Jimmy’s problem. His long legs were extended before him, crossed at the ankles. Tom was a handsome man, tall, with dark hair and eyes. His smooth skin and erect posture belied his age. He was rapidly approaching fifty. Do you have any idea what happened? he asked.

All I know is what the dean has told me, and that was in passing in the hallway. Do you remember seeing Jane Thomas in my office? She’s tall and kinda skinny but attractive, I guess. She was in my introductory botany course last fall and then showed up in my ecology section this spring. She’s a pretty good student and seems to have a strong interest in biology. Works hard and makes mostly A’s. Anyway, she suddenly charged me with sexual harassment. She said that I had made improper advances and had groped her. The dean went ballistic.

Oh yes, Tom said, I know who she is. She transferred in from out of state. And, by the way, she’s not skinny in my book. She’s a real looker. And yes, frankly, I did notice her in your office—a lot. I kinda wondered what you two had going on, he said with a leer.

Oh crap, Tom, don’t say that. Honest to god, there wasn’t anything going on with us. She wanted to help me with some research I’m doing for the Nature Preservation Association. They gave me a nice grant to survey some artificial wetlands the Department of Highways built. I thought she was just trying to get a job. Jimmy’s voice had risen higher than he had intended and, to his own ears, it sounded like he was too quick to protest. Jimmy frowned and looked at Tom. If you think something was going on, I guess I don’t have a chance.

The whole department’s talking about you two. And to make matters worse, the dean doesn’t even have to give you a hearing since you’re untenured. All they have to do is say ‘so long’ and you’re out. It’s your word against hers, and she doesn’t have to prove anything. In this case, her accusation is enough to sink your ship, he said. She hasn’t brought Title Nine charges against you, has she?

No, she just called the dean complaining about me, and I haven’t seen her since. Dropped out of my class and that was that. Jimmy gazed out the window. The buds on the sweet gum trees were ready to burst into leaf. In a way, I wish she would charge me with something—anything! Then at least I’d have a chance to prove my innocence.

Tom stood and turned toward the door. Hang in there, good buddy. It’ll all work out in time, he said without conviction. Will you be going to the faculty dinner? It’ll be the highlight of your year, I’m sure.

I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d rather not go, but that would just give the campus gossips more to talk about. I’ll have to think about it.

Well, whatever you decide, let me know. Mary and I will be there with bells on. I wouldn’t miss the president’s annual bash for love nor money, he said chuckling.

After he had gone, Jimmy turned again to the Chronicle. He looked under B for botany and found a position listed for a small liberal arts college in western Ohio. Damn! Ohio was in the wrong direction. He would prefer to stick closer to the East Coast. At least within a day’s drive of the ocean. Not that he was fascinated with beach life, he had little use for the heat and sun, but fishing was his passion in life. Surf fishing was one of his favorites. How could he get to Cape Hatteras for long weekends from Ohio? Maybe he wouldn’t have a choice. He’d be lucky to find any position at all.

All of this was too depressing with which to deal. He dropped the paper into the trashcan and stalked out the door. B.B. wailed to himself.

*     *     *     *

Jimmy drove his ancient Cherokee 4 x 4 along the narrow mountain road. His fishing gear rattled in the cargo space behind him. The long, silvery aluminum tube that held his fly rod bounced and vibrated against the side of the truck. The CD player crooned the blues, reinforcing his somber mood.

Upon stalking out of his office, Jimmy had driven home and called John Compton, his high school friend and fishing partner. Within minutes they had agreed to meet on the river. John owned and worked at John’s Automotive, a high tech auto repair shop located just outside of town. His reputation as a mechanic was legendary. There was a five-day waiting list just to have your car serviced, but no one complained. Everyone knew that John was honest. If your car was broken, he’d fix it and at a very reasonable price. If it wasn’t, he’d send it back to you with a zero balance due on the service ticket. Banks of complicated computer equipment arranged around his spotless work areas attested to his skill at repairing complicated modern automobiles. He had all the work he and his five employees could handle, and he was getting rich at it. Though neither of the two discussed it, John’s take-home check was three times that of Jimmy’s. But then, that didn’t matter. They had never felt it was necessary to compete.

Jimmy turned off the main street in Davis and drove up the narrow, gravel road that wound up the valley in which the amber waters of the Blackwater River flowed. The Blackwater was one of the premier trout streams in the state. He turned off the jeep’s engine and allowed the stillness to creep in around him. The soothing sounds of the valley slowly began to flow in around him, and the rattle of water over rocks was background music for the birds that twittered in the dark spruce trees and low brush along the river. Somewhere, up along the side of the mountain, he could hear a ruffed grouse drumming on a log. The bird, fanning the air rapidly with its stubby wings, set up a series of sounds like those of a distant lawn mower chugging to life, slowly at first then more rapidly until it ended in a solid blur of sound.

The warmth of the spring sun heated the vehicle’s closed cab. He stepped from the Jeep, quietly closed the door, and cautiously approached the bank of the river. The stream whispered by in a rapidly flowing slick, swirled around a series of boulders that littered the river’s bed, and emptied into a ripple at the