THE SECRET OF
FBI FILE 100-3-116
Author: Mark de Castrlque
First Edition
Trade Paperback
Retail: $17.95US; 228pp
ISBN 978-1-62268-173-0 print
ISBN 978-1-62268-174-7 ebook

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APRIL 2023

THE SECRET OF
FBI FILE 100-3-116

Blackman Agency Investigations - Book 9

Author: Mark de Castrique

CHAPTER 1

The last time I'd marched, I'd been in the U.S. Army. And I'd had two legs. Now my lower left leg was a prosthesis, courtesy of Iraq, and my gait was a little more rigid.
But I was as proud as if I'd been on the Fort Bragg parade grounds. It was just before nine on the Friday night before the Fourth of July, 2020.
    The protest march had begun in Pritchard Park, a small, triangular enclave formed by the intersections of Haywood Street, College Street, and Patton Avenue. A mix of trees, boulders, and a water feature, the green space usually hosted a Friday night drum circle, jamming people, djembes, and congas into an evening of drumming and dancing. For that night the event had been cancelled and replaced by the march. It was billed as a celebration of independence and a call for justice for all people. The crowd was twice the normal size.
    Patton Avenue had been closed off for those blocks between the park and Pack Square. I was in the middle of the throng, walking five abreast at a pace synchronized to the steady drumbeat of djembes. I didn't hold a sign. I held the hand of my partner and lover, Nakayla Robertson. Our fingers entwined, hers black and mine white. Entwined as tightly as our lives. And I was out there marching because I couldn't stomach what she and other African-Americans had endured. I'd like to think I'd be marching whether I knew her or not. But she made the march personal.
    The march was peaceful, in keeping with Asheville's liberal, creative vibe. Nakayla and I were joined on our row of five by attorney Hewitt Donaldson, his paralegal Cory DeMille, and his office manager Shirley, who never used a last name.
    We were all masked and Hewitt was gloved. He was in his early seventies, an age of COVID vulnerability, but that didn't stop him from being with us. He'd marched in the Civil Rights protests, the Anti-Vietnam War movement, and, in more recent years, even gone to Washington, DC for the Women's March and the March for Gun Control. His protest creds earned him the center spot with Nakayla and me on one side and Cory and Shirley on the other.
    After reaching the square, the plan was to march along the perimeter and then spread out to fill in the space at the opposite end in front of Asheville City Hall and the Buncombe County Courthouse. We would hold up our cell phones, using the lighted screens rather than candles and observe a moment of silence. Then we'd continue around the square and return to Pritchard Park.
    Police were visible but non-threatening. The feeling in the air was we were all in this together - protester and policeman.
    Except for one potential flashpoint. The seventy-five-foot-high stone Vance Monument at the nearer end of the square. The obelisk, a miniature version of the Washington Monument, had been erected in 1898 and was the most visible element on Pack Square. It was also the most controversial.
    Zebulon Baird Vance had been born in 1830 in north Buncombe County. His family was considered wealthy and owned slaves. Vance was well educated and a commissioned officer in the Confederacy. He served as the wartime governor, and after the war, he was elected to the House of Representatives and later appointed by the state legislature to the U.S. Senate. Vance made his mark on the state, and four years after his death in 1894, Asheville erected the monument in his honor.
    Now in a time of racial reckoning, it was seen by many as a tribute to a slave owner and a defender of an oppressive system that treated human beings as property. As tall as the monument was, it wasn't higher than the tidal wave of protest sweeping the nation. The Asheville City Council had created a task force to decide what to do with the damn thing. Although it bore no likeness of Vance and most people were ignorant of his history, the monument had risen in the Jim Crow years and was clearly tied to the attitudes and racist policies that still stained our country.
    As we drew near the monument, I wasn't surprised to see a small band of men surrounding the base. They wore no masks, waved the Confederate battle flag, and carried signs reading "Save Our Heritage." They tried to stare down the passing throng with menacing glares. The protesters ignored them.
    Then a man crossed the adjacent street. He wasn't part of the march and at first I thought he was coming to join us. Instead, he started yelling at the men protecting the monument. The drums drowned out his words, but evidently what he was shouting caught their attention. A bearded man started waving the battle flag at him.
    We drew closer and I caught snatches of his tirade.
    "Four years of stupidity isn't a heritage. We were wrong. Get over it!"
    He grabbed the end of the flag's staff and tried to wrest it free. The bearded man used it as a lance, driving it forward and knocking the protester off balance.
He stumbled backward, lost his footing and hit the pavement with a sickening smack as loud as the drums. The self-proclaimed guardians of the Confederate heritage broke and ran. Nakayla dropped my hand and ran to the fallen man's aid. I was close behind.
    Blood pooled under the man's gray hair. His mask was askew, revealing part of his face. He was at least in his sixties or maybe seventies. His eyes fluttered without focusing.
    I sensed Hewitt Donaldson draw beside me.
    "It's Henry Nelson." Hewitt turned to the small crowd that had gathered.     Protesters who hadn't seen the altercation continued marching. "Someone call for an ambulance," Hewitt shouted. "Someone else find a police officer. The rest of you keep your distance and give us room."
    Then he knelt next to Nakayla. "It's all right, Henry. An ambulance is on the way and one of your brothers in blue will be here soon. Just stay with us."
    Brothers in blue. Henry Nelson had to be a retired cop.
    For a moment, the bleeding man's eyes focused, not on Hewitt but on Nakayla. "I'm so sorry, Nakayla." The words were muffled by the mask and barely audible. "Can you forgive me?" Then he lost consciousness.

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