The farmhouse on Beasley Road didn’t look like the ramshackle, gothic home Norman Bates inhabited. But I wouldn’t have been there at eleven on a November Sunday morning, had the resident not been victim of a slash-and-stab, Psycho-like killing.

I turned left into the driveway and parked my unmarked Ford near the morgue wagon, crime scene van, and a Prospect PD cruiser.

“Hey, boss,” PO Bobby Crockett said. “Sorry ta bother you, but you’ll wanna see this. Or maybe you won’t.”

“That why you’re out here?” He nodded. “What happened?”

“The vic’s name’s Richard McBath, a teacher at Heritage High. His daughter did a sleepover at a friend’s house. This mornin’ ‘bout ten, the girlfriend’s mother brings the kid home and finds Richard stabbed to death.”

“Where’s that woman now?”

“Junior escorted her home. The McBath girl’s with her.”

“Hear anything about Richard having a wife?”

“Not a word.”

“The ME and crime scene guys been here long?”

“Half an hour.”

“A bad one, huh?”

“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. Lord have mercy. The blood, the smell, it’s a mess.”

“I’ll hold my nose and take a look.”

I’d seen houses like that before, not only in Tennessee, but back on Long Island where I’d worked as a cop for twenty years. It was one of the kit-homes people picked from a Sears-Roebuck catalog in the 1920s.

Entering the side door, I found myself in a large eat-in kitchen. In the living room, I found Jackie Shuman, a crime scene investigator, and his partner dusting for latents and taking blood samples.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said. “How many people got killed here?”

Jackie was kneeling near to me, dusting a lamp table.

“All this blood—looks like a bunch o’ people, but it’s jest one. You doin’ aw rot today?”

“I was before I got here. Who’s the ME?”

“Doc Rappaport’s upstairs. Earl’s with him.”

I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started up the stairs. On the third step I stopped. “Jackie, you photograph the staircase yet? I don’t want to tromp on this blood before you do your thing.”

“Did it first off. Y’all think yer dealin’ with an amateur?”

“Perish the thought.”

I continued up the stairs and found lots of blood splattered on the runner. Red smears and hand prints showed on the wall along the staircase.

The previous day had been cool, but not cold. Luckily, the heat hadn’t been turned up. But the unmistakable smell of a violent crime hung in the air. A warmer house would have created a really nasty-smelling environment.

I guessed our victim had been butchered sometime during the previous afternoon or evening.

The further up I went, the more blood I saw. The smeared hand prints on the walls were augmented with more intense splattering. On the upstairs landing, it looked like the victim slammed into the wall, leaving a red smear.

To my left was a bathroom, to the right, the largest of three bedrooms. The medical examiner, his helper, and our victim were all in that big room.

“Hey, Morris, what’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing in a place like this?”

The doctor said, “This is a bad one, Sam. Such a mess. I haven’t seen many like this.”

I looked around the room. The victim, a medium-sized man, lay on the floor next to a queen-sized bed. From the blood stains on the coverlet, I knew he started off on the bed, got stabbed, and then slid off onto the floor. A night table stood next to the bed, its top drawer open.

“I’m not pushing you, Mo, but can you give me something?”

“Sure, he’s dead.”

“And you know this after how many years of experience?”

He ignored my humor.

“I haven’t counted yet, but I’m guessing thirty to forty stab wounds and who knows how many cuts.”

“Find the weapon?” I asked.

“Yeah, in the shower, a butcher knife. Jackie says it fits the wooden block in the kitchen.”

“Why’s the drawer open?”

“Who knows?”

“If you want help getting him downstairs, give a shout. I’ll muster the troops.”

“Thanks. And my lower back thanks you, too.”

I began my search with the bureau drawers. In the top drawer, among T-shirts and boxer shorts, I found a box of Remington .38 Special cartridges. Twelve of the original fifty rounds were missing.

“You guys come across a handgun?” I asked.

Neither Morris nor Earl had seen one. I checked the night table with the open drawer and found only the personal trinkets that end up in everyone’s night table. No gun.

I tossed the closet; under the mattress; under the rug; the bottoms, backs, and sides of all the drawers; and everywhere else in the bedroom someone could look for clues—nothing.

I tried the second bedroom and found the closet full of women’s clothing, neatly arranged. Four empty hangers hung on the pole. When I opened the bi-fold doors, the heady smell of lavender attacked my senses. All the drawers in that room contained more women’s clothes. I thought it strange, a young couple with separate bedrooms, and so far no mention of a wife.

I looked at a nine-inch chef’s knife that lay on the shower floor. A shower still wet from use. I opened the glass door and smelled lavender—not as strong as the sachet in the closet, but unmistakably the same, perhaps from a soap or shampoo.

I made my way into the third bedroom, the little girl’s. I found nothing related to the crime.

Downstairs, in a storage room adjacent to the kitchen, I found lots of cardboard boxes with items unnecessary to everyday life in the McBath household. But I noticed an interesting thing: two suitcases—one large, one medium—and a void, a space that made me think a third suitcase had been removed, a smaller one.

I went through the kitchen door, and out to the side yard.

“Bobby,” I said, “did you run the plate on that truck in the driveway?”

“Yessir, comes back to the victim.”

“You check the garage?”

“Yeah, nothin’ ‘cept all the garagey stuff you’d expect.”

“You get any more info on our guy or his family?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m going to call Bettye and get her to fire up the computer. How do I find the woman who called this in?”

He gave me the information.

Bettye Lambert and I walked arm in arm along the Prospect Greenway at 6:15 on a moonless Thursday night. Leaves from poplar, maple, and elm trees floated down, littering the isolated blacktop path, illuminated only by the occasional overhead mercury vapor lamp.

Further up the trail, we stepped over golden-brown sycamore leaves, some the size of dinner plates and all garnished with julienned slivers of willow.

“You walk too fast,” she said. “It’s more romantic to walk slow.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Then let’s slow down.”

“You want to look romantic, let’s sit on the next bench and neck.”

“Sammy, darlin’, it’s not even forty degrees out here.”

“I know. I’m from New York. I walk fast and the cold doesn’t bother me.”

We walked for another hundred yards. Bettye told me how her son signed up for freshman wrestling at Heritage High School and I told her I just bought a new set of Pirelli radials for my ’67 Austin-Healy.

“Not many people are out on a Thursday night,” she observed.

“Yeah, people are funny. If they walk or run or bicycle three times a week, they do it on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The other days don’t get much action.”

The Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special in my jacket pocket felt cool from the brisk evening temperature. Acorns crunched under our feet as we walked on and passed a narrow path leading to McTeer’s Station Pike.

Sixty seconds later I said, “I think we’ve got company.” Footsteps slapped the pavement behind us.

I whispered, “I’m turning around. Take a quick step forward and to the right.”

“Okey dokey.”

I spun around abruptly and looked at a stocky man not more than ten feet behind us.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What time is it?”

He stopped in his tracks; his unshaven face partially hidden by a hooded sweatshirt worn under a brown Carhartt jacket.

The man looked shaken, but stared into my eyes and recovered quickly. He stepped closer and whipped a hand out of his jacket pocket. I heard the sharp click first, and then saw the brushed silver blade of a push-button knife shine in the lamplight.

“It’s time to gimme your wallet.” His voice sounded low and menacing.

“Hey, take it easy,” I said. “What do you want?”

“I want ya money, stupid. Gimme yer wallet and yer watch or I’ll cut yew and yer perty woman here.”

He pointed the blade roughly six inches above my stomach.

“Oh, I’m so glad you cleared that up, asshole.” I leveled the stainless steel .38 at his chest. “You’re under arrest.”

“Oh, shit!” he said, and tossed the switchblade at me, the point catching in the fabric of my new ninety-dollar Storm Chaser jacket, making a short slice in the cloth.

Looking down at my ruined windbreaker, I said, “Son of a bitch! Don’t you run on me.” I fumbled momentarily getting the revolver back into its holster as I began trotting. Bettye followed close by with a small blue steel .38 in her hand.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No, but I’ll kill him for cutting my jacket.”

I sprinted off after our would-be robber.

“Police. Stop!” I yelled, as the chunky felon ran awkwardly along the path.

He had no where to go but straight ahead. To our left, Crystal Creek gurgled along over rocks and tree roots. To our right, beyond thirty feet of woodlands, a six-foot chain link fence blocked access to the road.

As we approached a dog-leg to the left and a wooden footbridge over the creek, the tarmac walkway puckered in all directions from the overgrown roots of a giant tulip poplar. The cracked pavement offered an obstacle to the fleeing subject. I was only twenty feet behind him when the toe of his sneaker caught the elevated blacktop and sent him sailing.

He landed, letting out an “Ooof,” as he hit the ground, but immediately began low-crawling toward the grass verge and the woods beyond.

I caught up to him before he wiggled ten feet.

“Stay where you are, damn it.” I said, puffing from the run.

As he continued his comical escape, I lunged forward and caught a handful of his hoodie. He struggled and grunted and I slammed my fist into his kidney.

“Goddamnit, you prick, hold still,” I said.

But he still tried to crawl further, all arms and legs flailing in four directions, no doubt hoping to escape the inevitable. I heard Bettye’s footsteps behind me and hit him twice more, same spot.

“Ooof! Oh! Je-sus have mercy!” he cried. “Okay, okay. No more. I give up. You got me.”

From behind me I heard, “For God’s sake, Sam, don’t beat him to death.”

“Bastard ruined my new jacket and he thinks I’ll let him get away!” I slapped him on the head and yanked his right arm behind him to hook up a handcuff.

Less than five minutes later, Officer Will Sparks met us in a marked Prospect PD cruiser sitting at the main intersection of the four trails that made up the city greenway.

I led our defendant toward the open back door of the police car, his hood now hanging behind his head.

“Hey, boss. Hey, Miss Bettye. Y’all got yerse’fs a perpetrator.” Young Sparks sounded cheerful. He looked like a thirty-year-old version of Opie Taylor.

When we reached the cruiser, Will said, “Hey, I know this ol’ boy.”

The man in cuffs hung his head. Will took off his PPD ball cap and ran a hand through his reddish hair.

“Uh-huh, name’s Virgil Terp. I locked him up once fer . . . Cain’t remember. Stolen property or some such.”

“Virgil Terp?” I recalled a historical character with a similar name.

“Yep, that’s him,” Sparks said.

“He only matches the description of the subject in one of the robberies on the greenway,” Bettye said.

Her blonde hair looked shiny in the bright parking lot lights.

“We’ve got three more stick-ups done by someone three inches taller and forty pounds lighter,” I said. “Will, you know if he hangs out with someone about that size?”

Virgil stood at about five-nine and weighed at least two hundred pounds. We needed someone closer to my height, six-foot or even taller, and thin, no more than a hundred and sixty.

“Got him a brother named Morgan,” Will said. “He’s taller and perty thin.”

“Morgan and Virgil Terp?” I said. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

“Nosir. The Terp family’s been around Prospect fer years.”

“Is there a third brother named Wyatt?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” he said, missing my inference.

Bettye smiled and her hazel eyes sparkled.

I pushed Virgil into the backseat of Will’s car and slammed the door.

“Take him in and start the paperwork,” I said. “We’ll be back at the barn shortly. I’ll write the prosecution worksheet. On your way in, call Stanley and ask him to meet us at the PD. And call in the next cell guard on the list. This guy’s not going anywhere tonight.”

As Will drove away, Bettye and I took the short walk to my unmarked Ford.

“You may want to spend some time on the treadmill, darlin’. You were puffin’ by the time you caught ol’ Virgil,” she said.

“I don’t like treadmills. I get up early three days a week and walk.”

“Then maybe you ought to run.”

“Gimme a break.”

“Bein’ tall, dark, and handsome’s not enough, Sammy. You need to be healthy.”

“Are you my sergeant or my mother?”

I don’t know why she laughed at that.

“Have you gained weight recently?” she asked.

“I have not, and you know it. I’m the same hundred and eighty pounds I’ve been since I was a kid.”

“Just askin’.” She chuckled.

“You were just harassing me.”

“Sammy, would I do that?”

“Yes.”

“I said tall, dark, and handsome, sugar. But there’s a lot more gray up there since you started workin’ here.”

“That’s because of you. Now leave me alone.”

She laughed again. I wished I had Virgil handy. I would have smacked him.

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.

<><><>

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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