Fresh bacon sizzling over a wood fire makes one of the most heavenly smells on this planet. I put six strips into the forged iron pan sitting on top of Rollie Hutson’s small brazier. When the bacon crisped to my satisfaction, I’d remove it from the pan and fry the four eggs that sat awaiting their fate.

“You makin’ love to that pig-meat or cookin’ it?” Rollie asked, while I fiddled with a long-shanked fork, moving the bacon around.

“You could do this yourself, you know.” I didn’t like criticism while creating a culinary masterpiece.

Our campfire was one of thirty in the Prospect City Park. Other old-fashioned braziers and open fire pits smoked away as historical reenactors began their day at the Annual Prospect Heritage Festival. Everyone there volunteered to provide the paying public with an authentic glimpse of life in early Tennessee.

Smoke from hickory, oak, and cherry swirled around the encampment. Additional cooking smells filled the air—coffee, oatmeal, parched corn, and more bacon.

Several people walked among the canvas shelters carrying water buckets, all of them wearing 18th century-style clothing. Wedge tents, crude lean-tos, and large marquees made up a temporary canvas city within the park.

Besides being one of the two men there to portray local gunsmiths, I’m also the police chief in Prospect, Tennessee, a small city on the northwest corner of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

“You reckon the bacon’s done yet?” Rollie sounded impatient.

A commotion four tents away interrupted my answer.

“Je-sus Christ! Hey, somebody, come here! Gat dag, somebody, I need a li’l he’p!”

“Sounds like a job for the local po-leece-man.” Rollie showed me a wide grin.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I said, removing the fry pan from the flames.

I stood and looked toward the bell-backed wedge tent thirty yards down the row. A small crowd began to gather while a big man, dressed in a linen hunting shirt and knee-britches, held open the entry flap. Several people looked into the ten-by-twelve lodge before recoiling from the sight and smell.

“Excuse me, folks.” I pushed through the crowd. “If there’s a problem, I need to take a look.”

”Jesus Christ, Sam,” Bo Worley, the man holding the canvas flap, said, “I came lookin’ fer Whitey to show him this here powder horn I jest made and found him like this. Lord have mercy!”

I grimaced at G. Noble Whitehead, who sprawled face-up on his red wool blanket. The unusual thing I noticed was a pipe-tomahawk buried deep in his forehead.

On a cloudy Thursday morning in late May, I stood in Helene Redpath’s bedroom looking down at her naked body laying next to a man more than twenty years her junior. They were dead, of course, killed by two blasts from a horribly expensive double-barreled shotgun.

Helene Redpath spent more than four decades portraying a floozy. She appeared in major motion pictures, TV movies, cable features, and even on British television where they’ve never been squeamish about primetime sex or showing lots of skin. As a young actress everyone remembered her face, but I’d be surprised if many people knew her name. Helene worked steadily for years, but spent most of that time on the “B” list. Whenever a studio needed a beautiful girl with a figure to make Miss Universe jealous, they cast Helene as a cheating housewife, an oversexed career woman, a hooker with a heart of gold, or a scrumptious drunk.

On a cloudy Thursday morning in late May, I stood in Helene Redpath’s bedroom looking down at her naked body laying next to a man more than twenty years her junior. They were dead, of course, killed by two blasts from a horribly expensive double-barreled shotgun.

Things happened in 1968. Assassins killed Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I was a young soldier waiting for my twelve-month vacation to the Republic of South Vietnam. And Prospect, Tennessee, a small town in the foothills of the Smokies, gained prominence. Thanks to the national media, an armed robbery which took place in Prospect became known as The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job.

Forty-three years later, Sergeant Bettye Lambert buzzed my intercom. “Chief, there’s a Miss Lucy Frobisher here to see you.” “About what?” I asked. “Something you’ll want to hear.”

I get suspicious when a good-looking and well-dressed woman walks into my office carrying a briefcase. I expect her to hand me a document and say the magic words, “You’ve been served.”

That didn’t happen. Instead, she offered me a hand. “Hi, I’m Lucy Frobisher. I’ve got a problem and Special Agent Ralph Oliveri thinks you can help me.” I grimaced at the mention of Oliveri. “Obviously you already know I’m Sam Jenkins.” She smiled. “I do.” I shook her hand. “Sit down,” I said, pointing to one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. “Tell me about your problem.”

Lucy took a seat and looked at me with expressive light brown eyes. Her two-piece navy blue suit appeared expensive. The skirt landed only an inch above her knees, which she held together very properly.

“My father was murdered,” she said. “I’d like you to help me find the killers.” That’s not the kind of request you hear everyday in a small Tennessee police department. I’d ask how Ralph Oliveri, my pal from the FBI’s Knoxville field office, got involved, but I started with a few more basic questions.

“Did this happen in Prospect?” “It did.” “When?” I sounded surprised. No one had mentioned it to me. “April 15th, 1968.”

After that I was surprised. I did some quick math and came up with a figure. I would have placed Lucy Frobisher in her late-thirties, but with her father getting killed forty-three years ago, she had to be at least forty-two.

“I assume your father’s death was reported back then?”

“Of course. My father was the guard at the Prospect Citizen’s Bank and Trust when it was robbed. Are you familiar with what the papers called The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job?” “No. I’m sorry. In 1968 I was at Fort Bragg and not reading too many newspapers.” “The robbers were anarchists—anti-war types. They killed my father when he tried to stop the robbery.” “And you spoke to Oliveri because the FBI assumed responsibility for the case?” “Yes.”

I noticed her looking around the room—at the flintlock Tennessee rifle hanging on the wall behind my desk, at the shadow box with the medals and badges from my time in the Army, and at the counter where the mini-refrigerator, coffee maker, and a vase of artificial flowers sat.

“And no one was arrested for the robbery or your father’s murder?” “No.” “Why do you think I can solve this mystery after forty-three years?” “Because I think at least two of the robbers were from New York.”

I stared at her. She pushed a few strands of shoulder-length dark brown hair behind her right ear and smiled. Lucy Frobisher was trim and quite pretty in a very professional way—like a tall Audrey Hepburn. “And Oliveri told you I was a cop in New York for a long time.” She nodded. “He did.” “And you think I can resurrect an old case and track down former SDS or Black Panther members or other anti-war, anti-government thugs when the entire FBI couldn’t?” “They were part of the Revolutionary Youth Movement and I have new information.”

I heard the radio crackle out in the lobby. Bettye dispatched PO Jamey Hawkins to a first aid case at a trailer park off Doc Beasley Road. “Why won’t the feds act on this information?” I asked. “They say it’s not sufficient to reopen an old case.” That sounded like rubbish to me. “Ms. Frobisher, I’m sorry your father was killed, but I’m only one guy with a small police department to run. Even though it happened in Prospect, I doubt I can . . .” I let my sentence trail off. “May I tell you the whole story?” she asked. She sat back and crossed her legs. I think she anticipated my answer. That or she knew a big smile and a few extra inches of lovely knee would influence my decision. “Sure.” Then thinking she may take more than a few minutes, I said, “Would you like coffee? I have a fresh pot.” “Thank you. Dark no sugar, please.”

I fixed two cups and watched her take a stack of newspaper clippings and official reports from her briefcase.

I sat behind my desk, took a sip of an extremely hot Indonesian blend, and listened to Lucy tell me her father, Douglas “Buck” Frobisher, not only worked as a bank guard, but also served as a Blount County deputy sheriff, the security job being only a part-time gig.

According to Ms. Frobisher, the robbery went off like something from a 1970s “heist” movie. Three males and one female entered the bank just before closing time carrying shotguns and pistols. All wore rubber Halloween masks. After an attention-getting shot went off and Buck Frobisher stepped out of the men’s room, he drew his revolver and foolishly told the four armed felons to drop their guns. One of the males fired his shotgun and Frobisher bought the farm. The anarchists made off with $46,000 dollars before a bank employee could trip a silent alarm connected to the police station.

Two days later, in a message sent to the Knoxville News-Sentinel, members of the RYM claimed responsibility for the robbery.

The former Prospect police chief, one Eli “Peanut” Crowder, called in FBI assistance. Lucy said the investigation lasted for months, but as with many crimes perpetrated by a crop of home-grown anarchists from the late ‘60s, it remained unsolved.

“You don’t seem to have a problem talking about your father’s death,” I said. “No, I’ve lived with the fact all my life. And I never knew him. My mother was pregnant when he died.” “You’re certainly tenacious.” “Unfinished business.” Lucy slowly nodded with a look of resolution crossing her pretty face. “I think these people should pay for what they did to my mother.” She looked at me over the top of her coffee mug. “No argument there. But the same question keeps popping up, Ms. Frobisher. Why do you think I can solve this?” “Please,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “call me Lucy.” “Okay, Lucy, back to my question.” A little more eyelash action, then, “May I call you Sam?” “Sure, everyone else does.” “Well, Sam, I believe you know one of the killers.”

Hurricane Irene slammed the South Carolina coast the night before. Forecasters said it wasn’t the most powerful storm, but it was the largest with about as much square footage as Europe.

I strolled from the parking lot to the back door, tapped in my four-digit code, and entered Prospect PD.

When I reached our lobby Bettye Lambert asked, “How is it out there?”

“Beautiful. About seventy-five and dry. A twenty mile-an-hour breeze is blowing, but no one would know a hurricane is hammering the coast.”

We were working on a Saturday and Bettye had abandoned her Monday to Friday police uniform for a blue knitted blouse and tan slacks. A sergeant’s badge hung on her belt along with a .40 caliber Glock automatic. She looked like my idea of a sexy TV detective.

“We could use some rain,” she said. “Don’t hold your breath. Not a cloud overhead, but the sky looks like a war zone. The Air Force is sending oodles of C-130s from bases on the coast to McGhee-Tyson and the Army has squadrons of choppers heading to the aviation support facility. Makes me want to raise a band of mercenaries and attack Kentucky.”

“Of course you do, Sammy.”

“Before I plan a military operation, I should run all these tourists out of town. Every motel, B&B, and RV park from here to Pigeon Forge is packed with evacuees, NASCAR fans going to Bristol, and all the usual late summer merrymakers.

“The guys handled six fender-benders before I got here at eight this morning,” she said.

“These visitors just don’t know where they’re going.”

“And I hate every one of them for making us work overtime.”

“You’re not exactly a good candidate for ambassador of tourism, are you?”

“Ah, nuts. Screw’em all.”

Bettye laughed and the radio crackled.

On the other end, PO Junior Huskey yelled into his microphone, “Lord have mercy! This is 501. I’m drivin’ by the Foothills View Mo-tel an’ a car jest blew up.”

As he held the transmit button down, we heard his tires squeal when he turned the cruiser toward the motel. “Je-sus, look at that smoke and fire!” Junior said. “Stand-by, I’ll check it out.”

I’ve never seen Bettye get rattled. “10-4, five-zero-one,” she said. “I’ll send the fire department. Advise if you need medics.”

“10-4,” Junior said. “I’m 10-36 now. I’ll advise.”

Sergeant Stan Rose spoke calmly from his car. “535, headquarters, I’ll respond and assist. Other units, remain on patrol until I know if we need additional cars.”

“10-4, five-three-five,” Bettye said. “Prospect-one is here and knows the situation.”

“535, 10-4,” Stanley said.

“507, copy.” And “511, me, too,” came from POs Bobby Crockett and Jamey Hawkins respectively.

Then Junior’s voice came over the radio. “501, headquarters, send medics. I got an adult male with glass cuts.”

Bettye typed a quick line into her computer and transmitted the information to Rural Metro Ambulance Service.

“10-4, five-zero-one,” she said. “Paramedics on the way.”

“Damn,” I said. “Aren’t you and our troops just so disciplined and efficient?”

“Cause we have a great leader, darlin’,” Bettye said.

“Thank you, my dear. Since I’m Prospect-one, I’ll just mosey over to the motel and see what’s up. By the time I get there, the firemen should have the situation under control.”

“Call me when you know,” she said.

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The Best Western Foothills View Motel looked like something transplanted from Innsbruck, Austria to Prospect, Tennessee. Chalet-styled with dark wood siding and rustic white shutters, colorful flower boxes hung under the windows, and the glass panes were so clean, they sparkled in the sunlight. Charming, simply charming.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed the tranquility of the alpine setting had been scarred by a smoldering white Cadillac DeVille with South Carolina plates.

The Blount County Fire Department had dispatched two trucks and an assistant chief’s car from the nearby Walland substation. Hoses from the pumper covered the blacktop surface and two firefighters in turnout gear stood near the still smoking car. Streams of water trickled down the sloping pavement.

The Rural Metro ambulance was parked halfway between the office and the scene of the explosion. A man in his early-thirties sat on the tailgate of the ambulance. A man and a woman in paramedic uniforms tended to the wound on the back of his head and a tall young woman dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, stood close by looking concerned. I showed the four my badge.

“That your Caddy?” I asked the injured man.

“No. Jesus, I just backed into that car and it went up. Honest, I didn’t know I was that close.”

The stress showed on his face and in his voice.

“I was backing out of the spot across from him. I guess I wasn’t paying attention, and then—wham! The damn thing blew and there was glass everywhere. I’m sorry, but . . .”

“Take it easy,” I said. “Which car is yours?”

The female medic used a long tweezers to pick glass fragments out of the man’s hair.

“The red Dodge,” he said. “I pulled away from the Cadillac best I could, but my back window blew out. I . . .”

“Okay. You’re lucky you weren’t looking to the rear or that glass would be in your face.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Y’all need ta hold still,” the medic with the tweezers said.

“Let these people finish fixing you up and we’ll talk again. What’s your name and room number?” “Jeremy Bullen. We’re in 212.”

“Okay, Jeremy, hang in there.”

Junior Huskey and Stan Rose stood thirty feet from the burned out hulk of the once white Cadillac next to a middle-aged man wrapped in a terrycloth robe. The man’s dark hair was streaked with gray, wet, and slicked straight back. I assumed he had been in the pool when the car went up. It only took me a few more steps to get a close look at the man. I thought he could have been George Hamilton’s stunt double. Add pearly white teeth and a well cultivated tan to the hair I described and anyone would assume he’d have a closet full of Brooks Brothers double-breasted blazers.

The windows of two first-floor rooms had been blown out. The drapes moved slightly in the breeze, showing scorch marks on the white backing. The other guests had vacated the pool area, but plenty of them stood around watching the action.

A half-dozen firemen waited patiently as a man wearing a blue jumpsuit rolled from under the Caddy on a mechanic’s creeper. I recognized him as Delbert Ousley, the assistant fire chief.

He reached the two uniformed cops and Mr. Hamilton just as I did.

“Gennlemen,” the assistant chief said, “I’m afraid I got bad news fer ya. It appears there was an explosive device planted under the driver’s seat. No doubt in my mind. Y’all need ta have a bomb expert look at this.”

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