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The Nash Chronicles

by Dillard H. Hughes

300 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); **** AVAILABLE NOW ! ****; catalogue #01-0257; ISBN 1-55212-857-1; US$25.00, C$28.95, EUR20.50, £14.50

A seventeen-year veteran with the Athens Police Department is brutally murdered while investigating an open door at a closed business. Lieutenant Alton Nash investigates and uncovers corrupt officers, a nasty drug lord, and does battle with a Mafia assassin.

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About the book      About the author      Sample excerpt      Catalogue info

About the Book The City of Athens, home to the University of Georgia, awakens to the murder of an Athens police officer. Whit Seymour, a seventeen-year veteran with the department, stops to investigate an open door at a local business on the midnight shift. His back-up responds only to find him brutally murdered. Lieutenant Alton Nash, the head of detectives for the city, starts an investigation into the killing. His partner, Detective Jim Chapel, joins the case and the two of them begin to unravel a night of murder and mistakes. It doesn't take long before more officers begin to die as the two detectives draw closer to the source. Alton and Jim gain information that points toward Joseph Dean, a long time Drug Lord and area businessman. In his haste to be free of the investigation, Dean hires a Mafia assassin to begin eliminations of his employees, some of which are corrupt police officers working along side Nash and Chapel. The novel climaxes in a life and death struggle between Nash, Chapel, and the hired assassin. The story spans five days in and around the City of Athens and is filled with action and suspense as our heroes face adversity and political corruption in the search for justice.

About the Author Dillard Hughes started his career in law enforcement with the University of Georgia Campus Police in 1983. He went on to serve as a patrolman for the former City of Athens police Department. In 1987, Dillard joined the Gwinnett County Sheriff's Department in Lawrenceville, Georgia where he has served for the last 14 years. He is currently a Lieutenant and former Watch Commander. Most recently, he has been assigned as an operations supervisor in the Detention Division on the evening watch. Dillard attended the University of Georgia and majored in English/Education. His career began as a way to pay for his education as a teacher but turned into a full time job that has now spanned over eighteen years. He lives in Lawrenceville with his wife, Irina, his son, Emory, his two stepdaughters, Valia and Alina, and most recently, his baby daughter, Sarah Catherine.

Prologue

Monday Morning
May 28th
1990

     Whit Seymour drove his police cruiser from the lighted parking lot and eased south onto Broad Street. It was the start of the midnight watch and he was thinking of his wife, Linda. They had just returned two days ago from a wonderful second honeymoon that had successfully kept him off the job for two weeks. Probably the longest time he'd stayed off the job for the last five years. The marriage didn't reflect the strain. Whit still loved his wife as much as the day they married. The trip to the keys was only a reminder that they both needed a break from their jobs, kids, and families respectfully.
     He turned his left wrist upward and took notice of the watch his children had given to him on his 38th birthday. Mickey's arms were stretched out as if he planed to spring into a cartwheel. It was only Eleven-thirty. Whit had a whole shift ahead of him. After seventeen years on the Athens Police Force, Whit still found that he felt a certain amount of excitement when he came to work. He was respected by the younger guys, (the rookies), and chastised by the older veterans for his young cop attitude. He still felt that he could make a difference.
     It was springtime in Athens, Georgia and Whit could smell the first approach of summer and the slow but evident pass of winter. This time of year in a small town like Athens was different from most. Athens is the home of the University of Georgia and with it came a student population of about Thirty Thousand. Springtime meant short skirts and tan legs which gave the residents of the city a great view. Whit was no exception. He jogged every morning after work along a route that took him from the downtown district all the way out to the YMCA on the west side of town. Sometimes he took the Milledge Avenue route which ran him by several Fraternities and a couple of Sororities. It was there that the veteran officer saw some very beautiful women. But now with these thoughts abound, Whit began to think about his wife and he glanced at his watch briefly. He decided that she might still be awake and started to look for a pay phone.
     Whit eased the Ford LTD down Fulton Street then turned right onto Paris Street. He saw the pay phone across from Jackson Rentals. As he turned toward the corner, something caught his eye. Movement. The part of a veteran's brain that recognized movement in a dark, closed business had just sent up a flare. In that one fleeting second, Whit forgot about Linda, whipped the cruiser around, and pointed the headlights toward the front windows of the store.
     Whit was trying to remember exactly what the sergeant had said during roll call. Jackson Rentals had been the subject but just being back from vacation, he was unfamiliar with recent problems. The thought again of vacation began to pull Whit away from the movement he had witnessed. Suddenly he was imagining Linda in her skimpy two piece bathing suit. Her tall, slim body was a golden brown from days in the sun, and her hair blew slightly and lifted as the breeze reached with long fingers moist from the nearby ocean. Her hips were still modest with just enough curve to spark his desires. Whit knew that her pleasures were still as precious to him as the day he had married her.
     The beach.
     That was the topic at briefing. While on vacation, Whit had talked to a beach patrolman who had said that their burglary rate in the Keys had gone sky high. The thought had finally been retrieved. Sergeant Stewart had informed his shift that Jackson Rentals had recently become a prime target. He also said that the intruder alarm would be inactive tonight because of a malfunction that wouldn't be repaired until Monday.
     And now there was movement.
     Whit took notice of the steel cages on the windows and the large gate that covered the front door. He drove the LTD around to the back of the store and dimmed his headlights. It took only a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
     He saw the forced door.
     Slowly he reached down and took the transmitter switch into his right hand. Never once taking his eyes off the open door, he pressed the switch down firmly.
     "Four six nine, Athens."
     "Athens four six nine, go ahead," responded the dispatcher.
     "Ten-four, Athens, I've got an open door at Jackson Rentals on Paris Street. It appears to be a forced entry." Whit gave a short pause and stated, "I'll investigate . . ."
     "Radio, four six nine . . . stand by for back up unit." the dispatcher responded and then hesitated just long enough to take a quick pull from her coffee mug, and curse Whit Seymour for not wanting to wait for back up. It just wasn't like him to be in such a hurry. Dispatcher Shirley Haney pressed the transmitter switch on the floor with her right foot and barked, "Athens, four seven two."
     Officer Steve Norman, usually referred to as "Pop" by the younger cops, had just completed his first coffee round of the shift. He had spoken to the new clerk at the "Gulf One-Stop" and felt sure that he would be fucking her by the end of the week. During his thirty-two years as one of Athens' finest, Officer Norman had screwed almost all of the female store clerks to grace the midnight shift. This fact had become something of a matter of pride to the veteran officer. Even at the prime age of fifty-three, Pop took great pride in his ability to seduce most women he came into contact with. The younger, "rookie" cops, thought of the old man as something of a wonder. To them "Pop" was a legend in the field of "midnight stroking." And now Seymour, who in Pop's mind should be at the Dunkin Doughnuts choking down coffee and not screwing around at Jackson Rentals, was fucking up his schedule.
     Pop put down his coffee and glared at the radio. The shift has just started and Seymour was behind Jackson Rentals. This was an unexpected event for the master of the midnight stroke.
     What the fuck are you doing over there so early in the shift? He thought.
     Steve reached for the transmitter mike which hung limply from the right side of his dashboard.
     "Four seven two, Athens, go ahead."
     Dispatcher Shirley Haney was feeling nervous. She liked Whit. She liked him more than any other officer on the force. He always had a kind word for her. She didn't even think he snickered behind her back. Of course, this was not really true when it came down to the other officers. They continually handed out the fat jokes at every opportunity. He just smiled in his precious Whit Seymour way and gave her his usual kind remark.
     But now he was in a hurry.
     Whit never started into shit like this without back up and Shirley didn't like it. She didn't like it one damn bit. Methodically she pressed the transmitter switch to the floor again.
     "Seven two, be en route to Jackson Rentals and code seven on an open door."
     Pop brought the mike up slowly, "Ten-four, ETA is five to ten," he said.

     Whit stepped from the cruiser and edged slowly toward the front door. He saw the splintered wood from the forced door frame and watched the huge chain that had once held the door secure hang lifelessly limp. Damn big bolt cutters, he thought. Are the perp's still here? What the fuck did Pop mean by five to ten? Where the hell was that cocksucker!

     Pop turned left onto South Milledge Avenue. He had his window down and the cool night air of Athens springtime rushed in and down the front of his bullet proof vest. Pop squeezed the transmitter switch again and called to Whit.
     "Four seven two . . . to four six nine."
     No response.
     Pop jammed on the switch again.
     "Four seven two . . . to four six nine."
     The quiet was thick.
     "Damn it Whit, answer your goddamn radio!" Pop bellowed into the night air.

     Whit moved closer to the door. His mind was whirling in circles, debating the timely arrival of "Pop" the master of the midnight stroke. Shit, whoever was there is probably gone now. I'll just take a look at what damage has been done. He thought.
     Whit unsnapped his safety holster with his right hand and drew his chrome 357 magnum from its leather restraint. He felt the rubber Pac mire grips caress the palm of his hand like an old friend and Whit started to feel better. He positioned his index finger along the frame of the trigger housing (a habit he had gained in the police academy but could never shake), let the revolver hang down by his side, and inched closer to the door. His eyes fell over the damage created by the intruder and he reached out with his left hand to feel the splintered wood.
     Whit Seymour froze.

     Pop turned left onto Broad Street and punched the cruiser's accelerator to the floor. He felt the four barrel kick in and the back tires slide as he accelerated west down Broad Street. Pop had a bad feeling. No matter how disgusted he was with Whit for fucking around at Jackson Rentals, Pop knew that he should be answering his radio. Pop's last six years had been spent on the same shift as Whit. He was a good cop. It should have come as no surprise that Seymour would be checking out the businesses in his zone.
     Pop turned left onto Fulton Street, barely slowing for the turn and accelerated to Paris Street. The Ford slammed into the front parking lot and Pop leaped from the driver's side. He reached up with his left hand and keyed the portable radio from the transmitter box perched on his left shoulder.
     "Athens, four seven two is ten twenty-three!"
     "Ten-four, four seven two." Shirley paused for a split second and said, "Four seven two, I need you to advise status for Officer Down."
     Pop ignored the raving whale on his radio and took immediate notice of the rear of Whit's cruiser. Officer Steve Norman began to jog, almost running to the rear of Jackson Rentals. He slowed his pace as he approached the open door. Whit was on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back.
     Someone had stuck a shotgun to the base of his skull and pulled the trigger.
     Steve Norman vomited.

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