A book review from Geri Ahearn

Donald Drummond, and his wife Anne were both retired from professional careers, and agreed to go on a mission to unravel a mystery in Donald's extremely dysfunctional family. As they begin this incredible mysterious journey through the hidden family secrets, they begin to realize the dark journey might be "Mission Impossible!" Why did it take sixty years for Donald to meet his biological mother? Who murdered Donald's biological father? Did Donald's mother poison her husband? As the journey on the road to horror continues, the reader sits on the edge of her seat as chills tingle her spine, and the suspense has only just begun. As you continue to follow this disturbing journey into deception, conflict, and murder, you realize that maybe
some questions were better off left unanswered. John Wayne Cargile uses his expertise in psychology, and knowledge in religion to create an intriguing plot, with entertaining characters. This novel is packed with action and drama through surprising twists-and-turns to the end of the story. For the icing on the cake, the author covers the pages with reality, insanity, and a blend of romance. For added touches, he throws in madness, greed, and some flawed personalities that we usually see behind closed doors of a mental institution. I recommend this book to all mystery lovers who enjoy suspense, combined with action, and romance. The type of characters that the author created are as colorful as those you see in any of Alfred Hitchcock's finest movies. Did Donald and Anne find out too much? Was Donald's father in the Mafia? How many people were involved in the terrorist plot, and who knew about the conspiracy? As the reader follows the journey of deceit, the soap opera explodes as the saga continues in an ugly world of fear and regret, left
open for a perfect sequel. "THE CRY OF THE CUCKOOS" is a mesmerizing Masterpiece of the unexpected, and is as thrilling as THE DEVIL'S OWN with Harrison Ford, and Brad Pitt. Reviewed by Geri Ahearn, Phoenix, Arizona

A Northport Gazette article about author signing

Local author John Wayne Cargile will be signing copies of his novel, “The Cry of the Cuckoos,” at the University of Alabama Supply Store Wednesday, July 22 from 11 a.m. - 1 p.m.
The supply store is located on campus at the Ferguson Student Union Center.
Cargile’s mystery, suspense, romance novel is receiving high praise from readers.
“A splendid combination of what most readers, like myself, desire in a good novel--mystery, mayhem, madness, and one of the most dysfunctional families you've ever seen. It would provide a team of therapists with full-time work,” writes John Lee of Mentone, AL.
“I enjoyed Mr. Cargile's story "Cry of the Cuckoos." There were many threads through out the story that many people can recognize; the interrelationship of family, love, the aging process, friendship and death. Mr. Cargile has a gift with conversation that is very realistic and supports and builds to the story line. While much of the story was very realistic, there was a bit of soap opera quality about Donald meeting his natural mother, only to have her die a few days later. I have recently moved to the Tuscaloosa area and found some good parallels to the history and culture of the area in this book. I read Mr. Cargile's column in the Northport Gazette and look forward to more books from this author,” said Jill Hannah of Northport.
“John Wayne Cargile takes us on a journey that starts with much intrigue and ends with bold characterization of family life sometimes better left unsaid. Even when all is well, it isn't.
“What an emotional jaunt Mr. Cargile leads us on, spilling forth with page turner characters and strong plotting that keeps one on the edge of his seat to finish this book. I enjoyed it no end.
“Mr. Cargile has my undying admiration for writing a book that has no holes barred. Equal in emotion and plotting to a William Faulkner book, this one is a real keeper and one you won't forget for some time! Thanks for the enjoyable read.....” writes Rita Hestand of Wylie, Texas.
“Cargile carefully puts in place background details which provide interesting technical and medical information. His training in religion, psychology, and philosophy, as well as his strong interest in integral psychology and spirituality, are apparent throughout John's writing. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" becomes a platform for him to help people integrate their mind, body and Spirit into a Holistic lifestyle. Cargile's character development reflects his understanding of flawed personalities. His narrative provides a related analysis of their symptoms, motivations, and resulting actions. The strength of character of the genuine religious or spiritual person is contrasted with the lip service and lifestyle of deception in those motivated by selfishness and greed. These characters become colorful composites, expressions of idealism, reality, and deception.
“I was quickly drawn into the story of "The Cry of the Cuckoos" and the theme of deceit and forgiveness. Cargile's writing style is crisp, direct, and engaging. While I found this directness appealing, it may be seen as too simplistic for others. Transitions of locale or time-frame and the pacing of conflict and resolution confronted by the protagonists were well-paced, maintaining the suspense element of the story.
“I felt the story ended quite quickly, somewhat abruptly; however, an "afterward" wrapped up all the loose ends and gave closure to unanswered questions. The final chapters create the possibility of a sequel. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" by John Wayne Cargile will appeal to readers who enjoy mystery, intrigue, and romance. Cargile's writing is thoroughly entertaining and highly informative,” writes Richard Blake of Reader Views.
Cargile’s book is available at his personal website: www.thecryofthecuckoos.com or Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble Online and Books A Million Online.
The book is also available at the University of Alabama Supply Store as well as Little Professor Book Center in Homewood, AL.
Cargile was a recent guest on WYDE Radio 101.1 FM on the Lee Davis Show. Davis compared Cargile’s book as being “between a Tom Clancy and John Grisham novel.”
Cargile lives in the Mount Olive community near Coker in Tuscaloosa County with his wife, son and granddaughter.
He is currently writing his second novel, “Crooked Letter I.”

Crooked Letter I -- Chapter Two

Birmingham, Alabama

The newsroom on the fourth floor at the Birmingham Iron-Herald was abuzz as reporters and editors finished assignments for the day. The morning newspaper was the state’s largest in circulation covering every major city in Alabama through stringers, The Associated Press and a five-person staff in Montgomery, the state’s capitol. The Birmingham office was staffed with over 100 writers and editors.
Readers looked to the Iron-Herald for its investigative reporting, especially when it came to being a watchdog over the state’s legislative process. Some of the top young writers from the journalism school at the University of Missouri came to Birmingham to ply their writing skills before moving on to larger newspapers like The New York Times, Washington Post or Los Angeles Times.
Rob McRobbie, 32, was one of the first journalists to apply at the newspaper before other university alumnus’s found their way to Magic City. He was considered the “old man” among the younger staff members. A reporter who aspired to report about civil rights found plenty of sod for honing their social skills. A sports writer had plenty of wiggle room as high school and college football ranked somewhere between Jesus and the late legendary coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant, who some claimed could walk on water. An investigative reporter literally had enough territory to cover as those able bodied men and women did on the Oregon Trail. The state was wide-open for illegal gambling, prostitution, hate crimes and even terrorist organizations. The city ranked No.3 in the nation for homicides. Mostly it was black on black but, on occasion, reporters got more than enough fodder for their notebooks when a white man murdered a man of color. It was unusual, but it did happen. A black man taking the life of a white man was considered more serious.
McRobbie was familiar with Birmingham because he grew up on the western side of city in a poor-class neighborhood. He was a three-sport letterman in football, baseball and basketball. His high school English teacher told him his senior year he showed promise as a writer. She threw out the names of T.S. Elliott, William Wordsworth and Edgar Allen Poe. He knew following high school the University of Missouri’s journalism school was one of the best in the country. He applied and was accepted. After four years he returned to the city as a cub police reporter. Now he was the newspaper’s leading investigative reporter, known for his penchant to find the truth no matter how long it took. Research and details, as well as his knack for explaining complicated issues, were his strengths.
Only the year before, McRobbie was a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize in journalism, only to see a former colleague, Rick Stutts, win it as a New York Times reporter. He was proud for his friend’s accomplishments. Who better to lose the most cherished prize in writing except to a good friend and confidant?
Feet propped on his desk, Rob leaned back in the swivel chair in his office and stretched his arms behind his head. Having an office alone without too much interference from other reporters was one of the perks for being an elite journalist. His colleagues worked in tiny cubicles. He wondered now how he ever dealt with such a closed-in space. He needed space. His editors gave him more leeway to write controversial stories about citizens who got themselves in trouble with the law or courts. His articles had put more than a few criminals in prison, the latest being the killer of his uncle – Judge Roy Mallard, a liberal federal appellate judge appointed by then president, Jimmy Carter. A white supremacist that belonged to the Society of Southron Patriots had been indicted for the murder when a mail bomb was sent to his luxurious home in a rich suburb of Mountain Springs. The homemade bomb detonated when Uncle Roy opened the package. He was dead on the scene. W.L. Medders was sentenced to Kilby Prison where he was on death row awaiting turn to see his maker by electrocution. Medders testified before the Grand Jury, Judge Mallard was a “nigger and Jew lover.”
McRobbie followed the case from beginning to end even though his editor, Angus McCarron, was unsure about assigning a relative of the judge to cover the story. It worked out in the end. McRobbie always felt Medders did not act alone. Someone higher up in authority gave Medders the order. McRobbie had been unable to prove it, but he vowed he would unravel the case before he died.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his publisher walked briskly toward his office. He positioned himself upright in his chair, looked at the computer monitor, which had a game of poker on the screen. He was a whiz playing Texas Hold ‘Em or Blackjack. He often spent his off days in Biloxi, Mississippi at the casinos. Counting cards was his forte and casino managers tried to catch him several times. He moved around from casino to casino. He made more money at the tables than he was paid as a newspaperman.
He hurriedly closed the computer window before his boss caught him again.
McCarron wasn’t alone. In tow was a beautiful young lady in her early twenties. Rob winced. Did he have another young journalist to train?
“Rob, I want you to meet Miss Cindi Brown,” he heard McCarron say. He hardly remembered what his editor said afterward as he watched the shapely young woman, dressed in a blue business suit, blue high heels and a white blouse that revealed her luxurious buxom breasts. Her long, straight black hair hung down her boney looking shoulders and the twinkle in her deep brown eyes sparkled like the Fourth of July. Her long legs made her look more like a college basketball player. She was at least five-foot-nine, an inch shorter than him.
“I’ve been talking with Miss Brown for over two hours and decided her story deserved more than an article from our religion editor,” McCarron said, smiling at the young lady by his side.
What Rob was thinking when he heard his editor mention religion would violate one of the 10 Commandments.
He stared blankly into McCarron’s brown steely eyes. Neither his boss nor the young pretty lady smiled. Why would his editor give him a story with a religious angle?
“I’ll leave you two alone,” McCarron said, winking at Rob as he walked out of the office. “This might be a good story, Rob.”
“Please sit, Miss Brown.”
“You can call me Cindi,” she instructed as a smile crossed her smooth cream-colored face revealing perfect white teeth. Her lips were those of a gorgeous princess. The red lipstick was not inadequate looking. In fact, it accentuated everything about her. Her long black hair and ruby colored lips would attract any man. She had to be Latino, he thought. But, the name Cindi Brown didn’t match that of a Central American woman. He noticed the other male journalist looking into his office, and he closed the door.
“How may I be of help?” McRobbie finally managed to ask.
She fumbled with a brief case for a second before gathering a folder and placing it on his desk. The cover read, International Ministries for the 21st Century. McRobbie innocently let the file lay on his desk. He would read it later. First, he wanted Miss Brown to talk about why she was visiting, and why in the hell his editor brought her to him? He saved the latter thought for later.
“Mr. McRobbie,” she started awkwardly. “I am the public relations director for the International Ministries for the 21st Century. Have you ever heard of us?”
“Not sure I have, but go on, Miss Brown.”
“You might or not be aware we are holding our annual convention here in Birmingham next month. People from all over the world will converge on the city. The economic impact will be tremendous for the city. This is the Mecca of civil rights history and many of our members live in third world countries. But many come from Japan, Europe, Africa, South America, Mexico, Canada and even a few from China and Russia. We are a global spiritual organization that reaches out to people other than Christian. Some of our members are Muslim, Hindu and Buddhist. Our God is the God for all people. We believe God is Omniscient. The God we worship doesn’t belong only to the Jew and Christian, but to all people regardless of color and creed.”
“Hold on for a moment.” McRobbie held up his hand. He was certain that this beautiful woman who sat in his office could get really wound up in her ideology, and he wanted to stop it before she got carried away. He was not very religious although he believed in a Higher Creator. But religion was not something he talked about in front of friends much less a stranger.
“Why are you here?”
“Your editor seemed to think you can help our organization,” she said bashfully.
“I don’t know if you know it or not, but I am an investigative reporter. I investigate stories about people who are committed to harming other people, especially white collar crime.”
“Then, I must be talking to the right man. We need your help.”

******

McRobbie was finally able to make direct eye contact with the lady seated across his desk. He prided himself in being able to read body language, especially the eyes. It was something he intuitively did when interviewing subjects. He had been unable to look into Cindi Brown’s eyes because they had a look of seduction.
“After all I’ve told you about my work, you still want to talk to me about this convention you are putting on?” McRobbie got right to the point.
He saw her squirm a little bit in her seat, but her eyes were intently focused on him. It was an awkward feeling. She knew how to read body language and the language of the eyes as well as him, he thought.
“It’s a long story, Mr. McRobbie. But we need your help.”
“Who is we in the story,” he asked.
“The man who will be coming to Birmingham to speak to thousands of people at Legion Field is suspicious about this convention, and the people behind it. Dr. Ken Prior is an international speaker and author on self-development, one of the best known figures in the world when it comes to passions of the soul. He has written many books, been on the lecture tour for many years. He just went through a divorce. His wife left him for another man. They have seven children. He was running out of money before being approached by my boss through me. He wouldn’t be able to continue his lecture circuit without fresh money.”
“And, who is your boss?” McRobbie asked, finally taking his pen and scribbling down a few notes on his pad.
“I can’t say at the moment, Mr. McRobbie.” The subject before him began to tense her shoulders and he could see her eyes watering. “I shouldn’t be here. I must go.”
Cindi Brown stood up, picked up her briefcase and shook Rob’s hand.
“Wait just a minute, Miss Brown. You came here asking for help. If you are in such dire straits I need to know what this is all about.”
“I’ve already told you too much. I thought I could go through with this, but if my boss even knew I was talking to you my life could be in danger.” She went to open the office door.
“You must have told my editor more than you’ve already told me. Does he know what this is all about?”
“Mr. McCarron only knows part of the story, and he thought you would be able to investigate what we suspect to be happening concerning the convention. It’s more than a bunch of men getting together to fill their soul with spiritual energy. We feel that a larger picture is being framed by my boss, but right now it’s only a suspicion. Knowing my boss like I do, I can only imagine.”
“Sit down, Cindi,” McRobbie instructed. “I promise I’ll keep your suspicions to myself until we can accurately decipher what you’re talking about.”
Cindi sat down again and crossed her tan legs. McRobbie noticed. After all, he was great with body language.”
“Okay, now let’s start from the beginning,” McRobbie said.
“It all starts with Dr. Prior,” she started with a quiver in her voice. “He has been a leading exponent of men’s psychology for years. He’s helped many men learn from his teachings what it means to be a real man in the 21st century. The women’s movement pushed aside the man’s role in relationships, and he is reversing the challenge to men. He helps men take a deeper journey into the wounds, wonder, anger, grief and joy that comes from being a healthy man in the 21st Century.
“Birmingham is the pilot for this new enterprise. Dr. Prior is only a puppet in the show. We have over 100 young ladies set to embark on this city. They are called counselors, but in reality they are high society prostitutes.”
“Whoa!” McRobbie stopped her at this point.
“Why would someone bring in outside prostitutes to pick on little ol’ Birmingham? We have enough prostitutes around here.”
“They are going to pick their pockets, swipe their identity without asking for sexual pleasures. That’s the way it works. Besides the mayor of Birmingham is a sucker for any new ideas to bring attention to his city. He falls for anything and everything.”
“I can’t say I disagree with you on that point,” McRobbie said. This girl is good, he thought.
“The guys behind this scam have been around for years. It’s a carefully thought out plan. I know because I helped train the young women they are bringing to Birmingham.”
“Then you are in on this scam as much as anyone?” McRobbie was getting a little nervous and angry.
“That’s just the thing, Mr. McRobbie,” Cindy said, fishing for a handkerchief in her purse. “Since meeting the great Dr. Prior, I’ve changed my mind about my life. I want out of this mess, but I can’t. I am bound to these men or I will be killed if I go MIA.”
“Have you gone to the police or FBI about this?”
“No, I haven’t and I will not get them involved,” she told him. “Besides most of the upper management in your fine police department have taken cash to turn their heads concerning anything about the convention. You’d be surprised how much money has been passed around this state. My boss has his sights on the politicians in Montgomery. He is a big investor in the casinos on the Gulf Coast.”
“What’s his name?”
“I cannot disclose his name at this time. You will have to put on your Dick Tracy hat to follow these hoodlums. I am sick of them, and I want out of it. I’ve been with them since I was sixteen-years-old and the old man behind all of this thinks of me as his mistress. He loves me. I hate him. I turned over a new leaf after several meetings with Dr. Prior. I want a new life for myself.”
“Are you single?” McRobbie squirmed in his chair at the question. It was a little too personal, especially since he just met Miss Cindi Brown.
“I’m as single as they come, and I plan to keep it that way.”
Rob looked down at the notes he scribbled. It appeared he had nothing solid to go on except the word of some female nut case. He was beginning to wonder about her now. Was she actually telling him the truth or just trying to get out of jam and let someone else come to her rescue – like Rob McRobbie?
“Let me think on this for a day or two, Miss Brown. That is your real name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t believe anything I’ve told you, do you Mr. McRobbie?”
“I’ll do some snooping around and see if I can identify the men behind this alleged caper you’re talking about.”
“You cannot use my name in any stories you write. Do you understand? You will be dealing with something that is way over your head, and if you get too close to the fire, you will be char-broiled and used as Cajun meat in Creole.”
“Where are you staying in case I need to contact you?” McRobbie asked.
“I’m at the Hyatt Regency, room 532. I’ll be here only for a couple of more days and then return to Biloxi.”
“Is that where you are from?” McRobbie’s curiosity was taking on all sorts of what ifs – the attributes which make a great journalist. Every story has to answer who, what, when, where and how. Without them, there is no story.
Rob saw Cindi Brown to the elevator.
He walked away without a byline story for the next day.

Crooked Letter I -- Chapter One

Note: This is a rough draft of a new mystery, romance, suspense novel. I'd like feedback as to whether or not you would want to read more after the first chapter. If so, I will continue to post. I am nearly half-way through, and I am excited. I believe it is even better than The Cry of the Cuckoos.

Biloxi, Mississippi

Carlos Caretti lounged in his crimson-colored recliner inside the luxurious suite on the The Rebel Belle, one of several floating casinos in the Back Bay of Biloxi. Three of his top lieutenants sat on a sofa as Caretti questioned his underlings.
The Rebel Belle was one of the most lucrative businesses he owned, although he joked in federal court when he was accused of being “The Godfather of the Gulf Coast,” that he was merely a “tomato salesman” working for $1,600 a year, and he had interest in real estate. Gambling was a legal business now in the state of Mississippi and Louisiana. The Rebel Belle was one of the Gulf Coast’s best casinos and most “profitable.” And, it was legal. He didn’t know if he was better off now or when he ran illegal slot machines, bingo or ran a bootlegging operation at a younger age. Of course, his family was better off now, he thought. He was mostly legal in everything he did business-wise. That was – almost everything.
Some people referred to Biloxi as a “Poor Man’s Riviera,” but there was nothing poor in Caretti’s life. He was the one of the richest men in the South. No one knew exactly how much the Sicilian from Italy had stashed away in foreign banks. He didn’t know exactly. He only knew he was rich. He left finances to his consigliore.
“How’s de business?” Caretti asked the three men gathered in the room. He smiled and the wrinkles spread across his tanned, rugged face. He was 72-years-old, bald but had lived a robust life. With his wife of over 50 years dead, he had women at his beckon call anytime he wanted.
“Going great, boss.” His son, whom everyone called “Little Joe,” was the first to speak up.
“How’s de business doin’ in Colombia?”
“Still flowing, thanks to our Colombian friends,” Joe told him.
“How about de girls?”
“We’ve got the girls working hard,” Juan Escobar told him.
“That’s good. Real good,” Caretti said, blowing a curly ring of smoke from his black Cuban cigar.
“How’s de casino business?” he turned to look at Manuel Torres, who sipped on a martini.
“Our gaming operation is solid, boss,” said Torres.
Caretti stood up and walked around his lieutenants, touching each on the face with a gentle smack. “Then all is well in our little spot in de world?” It was more a definitive statement than a question.
All three men nodded affirmative.
“I’m a little, how you say it, concerned about the girls,” he continued. “Joseph, have you spoken to our little girl lately? Is she doing as I asked?”
“Boss, she’s doing great. She’s out spreading the word about our new enterprise. You’ve taught her well. One day soon we will be able to offer hope to millions of men who need love and affection. This religion thing was a great idea. Only you could pull something like this off and get away with it.”
Caretti burst out with laughter at his loyal son’s suggestion.
“Where’s she now?”
“She’s in Birmingham setting up the big convention. You know…making the rounds with the press, radio and TV talk show hosts. She’ll have the city leaders in the palm of her hand before this is over. The city will make a few bucks, but we’ll be the cash cow.”
“Des will be just the start of great things,” Caretti said, leaning over his son’s right shoulder and kissing him on the ear. “Dese men in Birmin’ham won’t know what got a hold of dem until we’re done and gone with millions of dollars handed over to our sweet, innocent young ladies. All in the name of God. None of de men will squeal because it will incriminate dem to their friends, families and Church communities. We’ve taken care of the cops, right? And, de boys on de council? It’s amazing what money will do in a lawman’s hands and especially their esteemed police chief. You took care of dem, son?”
“Yes, boss. No one will get in our path. I have to give it to you, Papa,” Little Joe said. “You’re God when it comes to raking in the dough.”
“You’s not seen anything like what I’ve cooked up for the state of Alabamy,” Caretti laughed. “We’ve got to get dem politicians in Montgomery to legalize gambling. We’ve got to extend our business to Lower Alabamy.”

The Cry of The Cuckoos: an imperfect masterpiece

Henry Drummond, a well-known KKK member with mob ties and founder of the right wing supremacist organization called the Society of Southron Patriots, is murdered. What follows is a study of the effects of his legacy on those closest to him.

The society he founded is in turmoil; fully committed to a terrorist plot to kill Washington dignitaries at the Super Bowl and delegates at the United Nations, the separatist organization comes under the scrutiny of both the local authorities and the FBI. Panic sets in and more killing follows.

Drummond’s oldest son, Donald, finds out his mother isn’t who he thought she was and begins a descent into a dangerous depression. The whole family faces upheavals and strange revelations at every turn. Lives change and Donald continues to unravel.

Eventually the story takes on a feel somewhat similar to books like Arthur Hailey’s Airport, Hotel or Wheels. This is a good thing!

And The Cry of The Cuckoos could have been a masterpiece... Following a theme of deceit and redemption, the story is solid. You want to know what’s going on. Cargile can construct sentences with the best of them. Both the dialogue and the scene progression are crisp. He also knows how to move a story along.

But I don’t understand his usage of tense and some of the words he chooses. Not only does he flip back and forth between past and present tenses—sometimes within the same paragraph—he also uses words and tense in unusual and improper ways. One example is his insistence in referring to the noun poison as poisoning. It’s an odd enough choice that it pulls one right out of the story and makes you ask why he uses the word that way.

This is an accomplished writer and editor in the field of journalism. I can only guess that he’s a victim of the risk many self-publishers take: that is, he edited his own work.

I like the story, but the strange grammatical choices diminish my enjoyment. I give this book a 3 out of 5 instead of the 4.5 it could have been.

Copyright © 2009 Clayton Clifford Bye

A review from John Lee (Mentone, Alabama)

A splendid combination of what most readers, like myself, desire in a good novel--mystery, mayhem, madness, and one of the most dysfunctional families you've ever seen. It would provide a team of therapists with full time work.

Though the last third ambles along almost to the point of losing a reader, the characters are so real and the story so well told it keeps your curiosity churning and the pages turning to see what happens to the Drummond Family all the way from Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Texas. I highly recommend this book--a damn good read. John Lee (Mentone, Alabama)

Reader comment about The Cry of the Cuckoos

this book is wonderfull it keeps you on your toes once you start reading it you cant put it down!!! hope book two comes out soon!!!!!!!!!!! Jenna Taylor and T.R. Pate.

A reader comment about The Cry of the Cuckoos

Jill D. Hannah said: May 17th, 2009 7:05 pm
I finished the book yesterday and would love to get some extra background. How much of the book and the societies are real? Obviously the places are and the more famous personalities. Your characters were very believeable and the plot was riveting. There were alot of twists and turns that kept the reader guessing all the way through. Great first novel, I'll be interested in reading more of your work.

An Interview By Karina Fabian

Interview with Author

1) Why did I write the book? My late mother, whom the book is dedicated to, and I were working on a historical fiction novel involving her and my father. She gave up custody of me when I was 1 1/2 years old. My father raised me. I saw her only in the summers. After she died, I felt compelled to write a mystery novel. The similarities in my novel somewhat characterize part of the book's mystery. It was not meant to be a mystery until after she died.

2) What was my favorite part? The main character in the book finally unites with his mother for the first time. She is a suspect in his father's murder. This is 61 years later when they meet one another. The first eye-to-eye meeting between the two was awesome.

3) What was the hardest part to write? My father was nothing like the one in the book. He was the exact opposite. It was actually hard because it felt like I was writing about my father and lying about him. I could go into that a little deeper in an lengthy interview, but you would have to read the book first.
4) What do you hope people will get from this? The theme of the book is deceit and foregiveness. No matter what someone else has done to you, you have to be able to forgive, turn the other cheek.

5) What is next for me? I am writing a sequel. The main character is wealthy, getting over a brain stroke. He becomes a New Age writer. The main character will follow his son and new daughter-in-law as they journey into a flawed relationship. His daughter-in-law is actually a half-cousin and the couple have a retarded son. It puts pressure on their marriage, but father is there, and Father Knows Best.

An Inerview with Chris Redding

1. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?
When I enrolled at Kilgore College in 1963, I was asked what I would like to major in. I didn’t have a clue. I decided at that point I wanted to study journalism. The school had a good journalism department. While attending Kilgore, which is one of the settings in my book, The Cry of the Cuckoos, I free lanced with the Longview Morning Journal. When I saw my first byline, I was hooked and I’ve never looked back. After 40 years as a newspaper writer/editor, magazine writer/editor and book producer it’s been a rewarding career. When I was but 10 years-old, however, I wrote a short story about a dog named “Rinny.” I wish I still had the little notebook that I wrote it in.

2. How did you pick the genre you write in? The mystery genre actually picked me. I started with an historical romance novel titled, “Decoration Day.” The setting was World War Two, and the main characters were a soldier and female civilian who met in west Texas. It was based on my father and mother actually. When my mother died in 2007, the book took on a life of its own. I decided to scrap the historical romance novel for the time being and concentrate on a commercial novel which I thought would appeal to a wider audience. Some of the material gathered from “Decoration Day” seeped into “The Cry of the Cuckoos.”
3. What drew you to the subject of (The Cry of the Cuckoos)? I was toying around with titles, and I ran across a YouTube video that had the sound of the cuckoo bird in someone’s yard. I researched the cuckoo bird and found that it likes to fool other species in its race to imitate their chirping cry. The cuckoo bird is deceptive in the fact that it will fly into another nest and fool the rests that it is one of them. The Society of Southron Patriots, a radical right wing supremacist organization, became my platform in this mystery novel. The society was like the cuckoo bird in its deception. It is more than a whodunit story, but a story about a son separated from his biological mother for more than 61 years. The cuckoos in this book are more than just The Society of Southron Patriots and, beneath it all reveals the flawed personalities in our culture. The themes in the novel are deception and forgiveness. I hope I am not giving too much away (ha)!

4. What was the name of the first novel you wrote? Did you try to publish it?
Surprisingly, I wrote a novel when I was in my early 20’s. The title was, “Years the Cuckoo Claimed.” It had the same leading character – Henry Drummond. I had read “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest,” by Ken Kesey and “Siddhartha,” by Herman Hesse. I was really influenced by Hesse at the time. I was attending Samford University in Birmingham, Alabama majoring in religion and philosophy, and Hesse caught my attention in his writings. I think I did send out several query letters, but each was rejected. So, I gave up on it. I may resurrect it later.

5. Why did you pick the publisher that ultimately published your book? I had a literary agent at the time, and she suggested I look into a new company called AEG Publishing Group. They had several plans and I submitted my manuscript. They also have a group Eloquent Books, which is a Print On Demand publisher. After reading over the contract, I decided this was the best plan for me. I wanted to be in control of my own destiny instead of being controlled by big interest from a traditional publisher. It’s not exactly self-publishing, because you share 50-50 in the royalties and the printing. It’s a tough road, but in my book experience as a book producer and a sales manager with Bantam Books at one time, I felt I made the right decision. I don’t regret the decision at all. I checked with other writers using their service and they were happy with their decisions, too.
6. Describe your book
I think I will let Richard Blake of Reader Views describe my book. I think he analyzed it better than most:
"The Cry of the Cuckoos" is the story of a son separated from his biological mother for over sixty years. They were reunited for the first time after she becomes a suspect in the murder of his father. Donald Drummond, the main character, is a retired news reporter. Award-winning writer John Wayne Cargile incorporates similarities from his own life in this novel of romance, murder, and intrigue. Henry Drummond, Donald's father, was the leader of a rightwing supremacist group called the Society of Southron Patriots, whose goal was deception. It was also rumored that he had Mafia connections. After Henry's death, by arsenic poisoning, a terrorist plot aimed at killing Washington diplomats by poisoning the food at the concessions of the Super Bowl was uncovered. United Nations delegates were a target of this conspiracy. Donald and his wife Anne were recruited by the FBI to work undercover as informants to help untangle the web of deception surrounding his father's death. A fast-moving, complex plot took the couple from Alabama to Texas where they encountered another murder with surprise twists and turns along the way. Cargile carefully puts in place background details which provide interesting technical and medical information. His training in religion, psychology, and philosophy, as well as his strong interest in integral psychology and spirituality, are apparent throughout John's writing. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" becomes a platform for him to help people integrate their mind, body and Spirit into a Holistic lifestyle. Cargile's character development reflects his understanding of flawed personalities. His narrative provides a related analysis of their symptoms, motivations, and resulting actions. The strength of character of the genuine religious or spiritual person is contrasted with the lip service and lifestyle of deception in those motivated by selfishness and greed. These characters become colorful composites, expressions of idealism, reality, and deception. I was quickly drawn into the story of "The Cry of the Cuckoos" and the theme of deceit and forgiveness. Cargile's writing style is crisp, direct, and engaging. While I found this directness appealing, it may be seen as too simplistic for others. Transitions of locale or time-frame and the pacing of conflict and resolution confronted by the protagonists were well-paced, maintaining the suspense element of the story. I felt the story ended quite quickly, somewhat abruptly; however, an "afterward" wrapped up all the loose ends and gave closure to unanswered questions. The final chapters create the possibility of a sequel. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" by John Wayne Cargile will appeal to readers who enjoy mystery, intrigue, and romance. Cargile's writing is thoroughly entertaining and highly informative.
Tell me one thing about yourself that very few people know? I think I was a writer in a previous life, and I was sent here to complete what the previous writer did not finish. His name was Thomas Carlyle and he was a Scottish philosopher and writer. I was reading some of his works one night and something flew all over me about his writing. It felt to me these were words I had been flirting with for some time was my own. He was a satirical writer, historian and essayist raised by Calvinist parents during the Victorian era. He was expected to become a preacher, but while at he University of Edinburgh he lost his Christian faith. Calvinist values, however, remained with him the rest of his life.
What do you consider your strengths in terms of your writing?
Dialogue. Being a news reporter and magazine writer for years I loved to write people stories. When interviewing a person for an article I was able to ask the right questions, kind of get into their head, and was able to pull things from them no other person might know. When they began to tell their story, the dialogue flowed and essentially the story was written by me, but told by them using dialogue. You’ll see a lot of dialogue in The Cry of the Cuckoos. The characters are writing the book through dialogue.
What place that you haven’t visited would you like to go? Perth, Scotland. The sequel to my book is tentatively titled, “Mary, Mary Quite Contrary.” This is after the famous British nursery rhyme. Research shows that the innocent little nursery rhyme is not quite what people think it was. The Mary in the nursery rhyme was Mary Tudor. Her husband, one of the British Kings, wrote the little verse after she could not give him children. It actually has been interpreted by some people as a little racy. The character in my sequel appeared near the end of The Cry of the Cuckoos. Her name is Mary Kate O’Quinn. The beginning of the sequel has Mary Kate visiting Scotland with her new husband. They are on their honeymoon. You’ll also notice on most of my websites the Scottish plaid. I am actually wearing a kilt no one can see. Our family roots trace back to Perth, Scotland, and there is a little parish called Cargill in near Perth.
What is your favorite words?
Amazing Grace. When you hear this song played with bagpipes you get a sensation that is indescribable. It’s an old gospel hymn, something I grew up with. In Church, when the choir sang Amazing Grace, it gave me goose bumps. We are truly here by the Amazing Grace of God’s creation.

An Interview With Barbara Ehrentreu

If it's Thursday it must be Guest Author day. Our guest today is the award winning journalist John Wayne Cargile whose new novel The Cry of the Cuckoos is generating a great deal of discussion and excellent reviews.:)


Here is a bit about the life of this unusual author:

He holds two doctoral degrees in religion and philosophy. He is a retired journalist, and his new novel, The Cry of the Cuckoos, is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Nobel, Books A Million. Publisher: Eloquent Books, New York. He writes weekly columns for two newspapers in Alabama titled, "Integral Life." John Wayne Cargile is married with three adult children, and five grandchildren.


Also, he told me his father was a big John Wayne fan and he was named after him.:) Actually that was the first question I asked him when we met.:) My own husband is a big John Wayne fan too!


Here is the interview:



1. Please tell us a little bit about your book, The Cry of the Cuckoos.
The cuckoo bird is a master of deception, fooling other species in their race to copy their chirping begging call. Donald Drummond and his wife, Anne, chase after the killer of his father, Henry Drummond, but find themselves up against a radical right wing supremacist organization called the Society of Southron Patriots and, like the cuckoo bird, deception is the Society’s mission. The couple unravels a terrorist plot aimed to kill Washington dignitaries at the Super Bowl and delegates at the United Nations. Donald, a retired news reporter, and Anne, a retired school teacher, unfold the mystery leading them on a wild chase from Alabama to Texas. And one of the many murder suspects is Donald’s biological mother, Betty Jo Duke, who he only just met after his father’s death. Donald and Anne are hired as informants by the FBI to unravel the mysterious case and they get a lot more than they bargained for.

Barbara: Wow!!! I'm sorry you ran out of books. Now I'm going to have to go and buy it immediately. What a whirlwind plot.:)


2. How did you get the idea for the plot of this book?
As a former newspaper reporter and FBI clerk, I interviewed the president of a local Neo-Confederate organization many years ago. I visited with him in his home, and I attended several of his meetings. They are right wingers, but they are not terrorists. They follow an ideology much like what you saw at the "Tea Parties" recently. Our government is not the same government intended by the framers of our Constitution. It's not an Obama thing, it's big government, which Orwell described years ago of Big Brother. Donald Drummond and his wife are retired, but with his father's death, the couple is recruited by the FBI and Homeland Security to unravel the death of his father, who is actually murdered by someone. His father was the founder of the Society of Southron Patriots, and for the first few chapters the novel is basically a whodunit with everyone pointing their fingers at one another. There are actually two storylines in the novel: 1) The murder mystery, 2) an identity crisis when Donald, the main character, learns he has a real mother living in Texas, who becomes a suspect in his father's murder. She had a motive. Learning about his real mother sends him into a state of anxiety, depression and panic attacks. Once he realizes his real identity he finds himself on the verge of suicide, and the anger and resentment from his family who have deceived him all 61 years of his life become the themes of deception and forgiveness.


Barbara: You keep talking about this mother and this is another reason I need to read your book.:)

3. When you are starting a new story which do you think of first, the characters or the plot? Why?
The characters first. I frame the characters first and once I've identified their idiosyncrasies, and place the characters in dialogue, the plot begins to evolve. In my novel, Henry Drummond is dead, but through the characters he has touched throughout his life, one can get a good idea of how much one dead man leaves behind in his wake. One reviewer notes I have a good sense of flawed characters. That can be attributed to my background in psychology, philosophy and religion.

4. You mention in your bio that you were a clerk in the FBI for a year. How did this experience help when you were writing this book?
Tremendously. When I was a junior in college I went to work as an FBI clerk in Birmingham, Alabama. The FBI agent, who recruited me as a meat clerk with A&P Tea Company, was the head agent in charge of the KKK. My one year at the Bureau was spent studying KKK files. Also, at the same time Martin Luther King, Jr, had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Our office was thrown into the mix since James Earl Ray purchased the gun in Birmingham, Naturally, I got to read all the FBI reports about the assassination. I got a sense of how the FBI worked, and once thought about joining them once I graduated from college, but I was recruited as a newpaper reporter while taking a creative writing class taught by the City Editor of The Birmingham News. His thoughts were if I was with the FBI then I could be of help as a cub police reporter. I was more adept, however, at writing features about people. I love writing about other people. All of the awards I received were about people. Every person has a story to tell about themselves, and I like to pull it out of them.

5. Please share with our readers your experiences in trying to get your book published.
I have been a book producer, and worked a year as a regional sales manager for Bantam Books. I am 64 and I know how tough it is to break in with a traditional publisher, especially a new author. I had another book I wrote when I was in my 20's, and I received the usual rejection slips. My age had something to do with going with the publisher I am with now. I guess my mortality intuited it (ha). I simply don't have many years left to write what I need to write, so I found AEG Publishing Group through my agent. It's not for everyone, but I entered a joint venture contract with them where I share 50-50 in publishing and royalties. They have all the services of a traditional publisher, and if you choose you can use them for a price. I am only using one service from them and that is a great PR person who contracts with them. She has an awesome literary resume.

6. Did you need to do a lot of research for The Cry of the Cuckoos? What kinds of research did you do?
Oh, yes, lots of research. I had already written my book, Decoration Day, when the editor said it was too generic. I began to research the cuckoo bird. I found it to be exactly like that of the right wing supremacist group I describe in the book. Without giving too much away, there was a poison from China that the organization purchased on the black market. I had to research it. There was also research done in the medical field since my main character had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. There's qute a bit of medical information in the novel, especially as the main character ends up in a pyschiatric ward.

7. I noticed you have been a newspaper writer for forty years. What made you decide to write a fiction novel? Has your newspaper experience helped or hindered your writing of fiction?
It's been difficult. The first thing I learned was to show not tell. That has been the most difficult. But I grew up in newspaper writing within the New Journalism style, which is the way many journalists worth their mettle write today. I guess it started with Tom Wolfe of the New York Times. Someone said he started the New Journalism with his Esquire Magazine about "The Last American Hero is Junior Johnson." It was a fascinating magazine article and journalists began to copy Wolfe's style. Journalism is akin to novel writing I've learned. If you cannot capture your audience within the first three paragraphs you've lost them for good. The same goes for novel writing. You'll notice, for those who have read an excerpt, that I leave no holds barred with my opening paragraph, using a dream scene. It's an action within an action.

8. Do you have a critique group? What are your thoughts about critique groups?
I belonged to Internet Writers Workshop for a long time. Some of you may be members, but it got to be a little much. You'd post a chapter, and, if you were lucky, someone would jump in with a critique. I wondered some time whether they were just trying to reach their numbers at IWW, or they really cared about what you were writing. I finally gave up on them. I was told by a wise ol' soul, that you can have 10 editors in a room reading your material and you will come out with 13 interpretations. It's best to have one person critique it and use what you find useful and purposeful.

9. Do you have an agent? Do you think new authors need an agent? Why?
I stumbled onto an agency, and it worked out for me. If you want to make it into big-time publishing, you'll need an agent, and it's also a must to join the Writer's Guild. If you just want to publish a book so your family and friends can call you an author, that is a totally different story. But I want my novel to sell, be read, and be popular. A reviewer likened the emotion and plotting of my novel to William Faulkner's books. I was really very flattered. If you can find an agent it will be well worth your while. You want to write, then let others more in the know do some of the sales and marketing for you. I am as aggressive in sales and marketing as I was in the writing of the book. But some people just want to write and let their publisher do all the leg work. That will not happen, believe me! You've got to market your book and take advantage of every opportunity to let people know you are out there with hundreds of thousands of other authors wanting to be recognized. These blog interviews are tremendous opportunities. Becoming a member of the Red River Writers is also beneficial in that you become part of a community of readers and writers whose sole purpose is entertainment and education.


Barbara: Yes, I agree that Red River Writers has been a big plus for both authors and bloggers who are writers. It's a great way for all kinds of writers to network. After all I write YA and have hosted authors from various genres. This is all thanks to April Robins who started it. Kudos to April!

10. Which do you enjoy writing more; your newspaper column or fiction?
I love both. My newspaper column is about living an Integral Life in Mind-Body-Spirit. I have incorporated my philosophy into the novel in certain instances, but it is not flagrantly realized. One reviewer captured my philosophy in his review. He said I was using it as my platform, but it is not a preachy sort of thing. It's just there for the taking. I also write features for the newspapers, and I love that part about as much as anything. I like writing about people.

11. The Cry of the Cuckoos deals with a murder possibly involved with a right wing fundamentalist group. a) How close to the truth are the events in the book? b) The Department of Homeland Security recently announced that we were in danger from these right wing groups and labeled them terrorist. How do you feel about this?
Well, unfortunately for my right wing supremacist group, Homeland Security would confirm their own report. Homeland Security plays a role in my novel. But in real life, some of the organizations listed as terrorists have been unkindly singled out. Veterans make up many of these right wing organizations, but their intent is not terrorism. It is an ideology. My group still thinks the South was right to go to war with the North and Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. They are against big government, and the recent report by Homeland Security brought many of them out of the closet. There will be a lot more stirring among groups like I describe in my novel. The average citizen will begin to see this ideology and I wouldn't be surprised to see another Civil War in my lifetime. This time it will not be a North-South war, but one where the middle class finally decides they are tired of being taxed to the gills, and they will become a militant group. Right behind them will be the organizations who already have structure. More middle class people will be joining these extremist groups.


Barbara: This is a subject to which I could probably devote an entire blog. I'd love to have you come back and discuss this at a later time.:)

12. What is your writing process?
That's hard to put a finger on. I sit down with my characters and talk to them. I put them together in my mind, sometimes I'll put ideas into a special folder on my computer. If, say, one of my characters has a histrionic personality disorder, I try to find other characters in real life and in fiction who match that personality and I watch them grow into their role. One of my characters has this personality disorder, and it is what some psychiatrists say was Scarlett O'Hara's in "Gone With The Wind." I've studied her personality for quite some time, and I am thinking about writing a sequel with the main character being a Scarlett O' Hara type, but maybe with some redeeming qualities.




13. Will you be doing any book signings? Do you have a schedule for our readers?
I am doing local signings right now. My PR person is setting up a regional schedule. I have set up the local ones. A weekly newspaper is doing a full page spread on me this week. It involves an interview much like this one, a review, and a press release along with a value added incentive for those who buy my novel. I am offering an eBook valued at $9.95 of My Metaphysical Musings, newspaper columns I have written on Integral Life the past three years. It is only offered at my website, however. The publisher doesn't know I am doing this, and wouldn't care. You won't be able to get the eBook except at my website. An autograph copy of the book is only available at my website. www.thecryofthecuckoos.com Only those who come to an autograph signing will be able to get a handwritten autograph. and I will be signing books at Arts Night in Northport, Alabama on May 7th. I will also be in Homewood, Alabama on June 13th for an autograph signing. So catch a plane and come on down. You might want to watch out for Homeland Security, however, because if you were at a "Tea Party," chances are you are a terrorist (ha)!


Barbara: Well, I didn't attend any of those "Tea Parties" because my political philosophy is nowhere near that of the people you mentioned. Though I understand how they feel, they are not looking at the facts. Taxes will be going down for the middle class. I think everyone should be concentrating on the credit card companies.:)


Thank you so much for giving us a peek into your life and your writing. Now here is the special treat I mentioned earlier in the week. John is giving away the same e-Book he gives to those who buy his book to the winner of the drawing here. All you need to do to be eligible to win is to leave a question or comment here for John Wayne Cargile. This has been such a great interview I have a lot of questions myself.:)

Author Signings

I have two author signings scheduled for May and June. I will be at the offices of The Northport Gazette, Northport, Alabama for Arts Night and on June 13th I will be signing books at Little Professor Book Store in Homewood, Alabama from noon-2 p.m. The store is currently carrying my book.

The Cry of the Cuckoos Likened to William Faulkner's Writing

Reviewed by Rita Hestand (author)
Sometimes finding the truth opens up a can of worms that can't be disposed of. Retired news reporter Donald Drummond, and his retired teacher wife, Anne, begin to unravel a family mystery that leads to death and intrigue. Trying to discover his father's killers, Donald is whisked into the confidence of the FBI and faced with insurmountable truths.

Donald is forced to deal with his father's underhanded business with the Society of Southern Patriots, and an unmasking of his own identity that he must come to grips with.

After sixty one years, Donald meets his real mother. And his mother is a suspect in his father's death. His father was poisoned. However, as Donald works closely with the authorities, he unravels one bad soap opera after another, how much can one man stand to know about his heritage? And can he live with the knowing?

John Wayne Cargile takes us on a journey that starts with much intrigue and ends with bold characterization of family life sometimes better left unsaid. Even when all is well, it isn't.

What an emotional jaunt Mr. Cargile leads us on, spilling forth with page turner characters and strong plotting that keeps one on the edge of his seat to finish this book. I enjoyed it no end.

Mr. Cargile has my undying admiration for writing a book that has no holes barred. Equal in emotion and plotting to a William Faulkner book, this one is a real keeper and one you won't forget for some time! Thanks for the enjoyable read.....

The Cry of the Cuckoos -- Chapter One

Chapter One Midfield, Alabama He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white-sheeted figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man sliced through the ritual of the robed men. A long rope hung over a tall tree limb. The noose meant death to the nigger. “Noooo...Dad!”
He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of the telephone next to his bed.
“Donald, come quick,” his mother’s voice exploded through the telephone line. “I think your father is dead.”
He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32 in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain still somewhere in dreamland.
“Stay calm. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he told her. The old son-of-a- bitch has finally croaked.
“What’s the matter?” his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed covers and hung up the telephone receiver.
“It’s Dad,” he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his blue jeans.
“Mother thinks he is dead.”
“Really,” Anne said, sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to go with you?"
“No, honey,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he reversed out of the driveway.
He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parent’s home. It was six days before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.
Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was not his father’s best characteristic.
He gunned the accelerator to the floor as the Jeep climbed the long, steep driveway. The black wrought iron gate was already open. No need to stop and punch in the security password. He parked at the front entrance of the mansion sitting atop the hill overlooking the city.
Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open. Still in her pajamas she waved him in.
Donald turned the ignition and red emergency flashers off, got out and raced to her.
“He’s gone, son,” she said. Her eyes were pink and heavy, her face buried in her wrinkled cupped hands.
Donald gave her a quick hug and walked into the den where his father usually stayed most of the day. He found his father lying on the couch, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His black laced shoes polished to a spit shine. Donald cast his eyes toward his father’s face. It was drawn and haggard. His head, bald from radiation and chemotherapy. His body, gaunt and frail. The thin arms were folded across his chest. He knew before he took a pulse his father was dead; dead at eighty-two years of age.
Donald sensed his mother standing behind him waiting for a verdict.
He turned to face his mother and took her in his arms without saying a word. He nodded his head. Rose began to whimper softly, and Donald hugged her tightly.
“I know, I know,” he said, trying to console her. He stroked her solid gray hair as she laid her head on his chest.
He was unable to cry. His mind numbed, unattached to the body lying on the couch. With a strange dispassionate calm, as though he were his own guru, he tried to examine his final thoughts. He felt like he had been swallowed inside a giant vacuum and sucked into a higher state of mind. It was an emotion he never had experienced. Had the dream earlier that morning meant anything? He barely remembered it. It was more nightmare than dream. He wondered why death was in his dream and suddenly he awoke to the reality of his father’s death. Prophetic? Coincidence?
Finally, Donald asked her: “Have you called 9-1-1?”
She shook her head, “no.”
He walked into the silence of the dining room, switched on the light and found the telephone attached to the wall. His heart-beat raced. He dialed the emergency number. He gave his name and address to the house then dialed his home.
“Honey, it’s Dad,” he said softly, trying to stay calm. He was the oldest of the three sons and felt it his duty to be strong for his mother’s sake. His mother was the glue that kept the family together. Not this monster of a man lying prone on the sofa with a stiff face.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Anne said. “How’s Rose holding up?”
“She’ll be fine.” “I’ll call David and Daniel and tell them to come to the house.”
“He was lying like this when I woke up and came into the den,” his mother said. “I guess it was just before 5:30. The television was on. His eyes were closed and he was just like he is right now. I called his name, but he didn’t respond.”
Sirens from first responder vehicles screamed into the early December morning. The red and blue emergency flashers lit up the neighborhood. A police car was the first on the scene, then paramedics. The yard swarmed with activity. Neighbors stirred outside their homes.
Donald watched as the responders hurried into the house to examine the body. Thirty minutes later a coroner arrived and behind him a government agent he recognized from the FBI.
The den was covered with a stack of magazines spilled across the floor. The drawers of a desk had been emptied, and a closet looked as if it had been imploded, most of the hangars and clothing on the floor.
He watched as the medical examiner uncovered a sheet Donald placed over the body.
“He’s been dead for several hours,” the examiner said.
Donald turned to look at Rose, whose eyes were now alert. The tears were gone. She walked around the room, looking at the family pictures she personally placed in the room to help remind her husband of his offspring. Donald knew his mother was reminiscing. He had seen her like this before. His father hadn’t placed a lot of value on his children. Not what was expected from an old man near death. He hadn’t been the model father or grandfather. He placed more value on friends... and enemies. Donald remembered his father’s words, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.”
“Mrs. Drummond, I am the county coroner. Do you want an autopsy of your husband?”
“Why would we need an autopsy?” Donald blurted out before giving second thought to the question.
“He might have died of natural causes but sometimes there are extenuating circumstances,” the coroner responded.
Henry Drummond was a familiar figure in Birmingham, Alabama and across the country for that fact. Even the coroner knew his name. His name appeared in newspaper articles and in court records, something Donald knew all too well. The Federal Bureau of Investigation listed Drummond as a former member of the Ku Klux Klan. He controlled the underground Southern mafia though the agency could never prove it. The Civil Rights Legal Center in Montgomery, Alabama listed his organization, The Society of Southron Patriots, a right wing supremacist hate group and a terrorist’s threat due to its philosophy as a Southern Nationalist organization whose ultimate goal was a free and independent Southern republic. He had been accused and acquitted of all charges in court of being an accessory to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombings which took the lives of four young, innocent black girls in 1963.
Donald spotted his friend and high school classmate. Midfield Police Chief, Jay Norris, was the first cop on the scene that morning.
“I’m so sorry, Donald,” Norris said, putting his arm around Donald’s broad shoulders.
“Thanks Jay.” Donald’s name was familiar in Birmingham for a different reason than his father. His bylines often made the featured headline story for the newspaper. Radio and television reporters often relied on him in order to get their leads for stories breaking in the court systems. He was the city’s expert on court news. Drummond’s death meant the media would be at the house in a matter of minutes.
“I don’t need this right now. It’s Christmas, and I am retiring on the 31st.”
Local television reporters appeared out of nowhere, setting up cameras in his parent’s front yard. Donald hesitated but walked out to greet them.
“Mr. Drummond, can I get an interview with you?” a TV reporter asked, sticking a microphone in Donald’s face. Other TV crews were on the scene, and a reporter from his newspaper was there with pad, pen and a tape recorder.
“My father is dead, that’s about all I’ve got to say,” Donald said.
“Was it a natural death, Mr. Drummond?”
“I suspect so, but I don’t know anything at this point. My Dad suffered from prostate cancer, so I assume it was cancer which caused his death.”
“He’s been linked to the mafia, and the Society of Southron Patriots is under attack by the Civil Rights Legal Center. Do you think it was a hit job?”
Despite the sobering death experience of his father Donald couldn’t help but see irony in the question and had to keep from laughing.
“Well, I didn’t see any signs of struggle. I don’t think we have a story here about the mafia going to the mattresses.” Donald said, alluding to a scene in “The Godfather,” movie. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll have to interview the coroner and Chief Norris to get the information you need.”
He knew every one of the reporters and liked all of them. But this wasn’t the Birmingham Media Club. He didn’t feel like being sociable. Maybe another time and another place, he told them.
“This embarrasses me every time something happens with my father involved,” he thought as he dialed his editor’s cell phone to let him know the situation. He wouldn’t be in the office today.
“Don’t worry about it,” his editor told him. “Everyone knows the type man you are, and you are not your father.”
Donald went back into the den. He eyed the coroner who was finishing up his work. He noticed the coroner holding a pill bottle in a handkerchief.
“I found this,” the coroner said, holding out the bottle to let Donald read the label. “I found it lying under the couch.”
Norris overheard the conversation and looked at the bottle the coroner had in his hand.
“It’s empty,” he said. “I suspect these are sleeping pills, Norris,” the coroner said. “You might want to question Mrs. Drummond about them at the appropriate time.”
“It’s his sleeping pills,” Donald said, not surprised at the finding.
“Mr. Drummond, I also smelled alcohol on your father. Due to the findings we must automatically perform an autopsy.”
“We don’t have a choice. Is that what you mean?” Donald asked, knowing how the procedure worked.
Donald went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Norris followed behind.
“Donald,” Norris said. “Your father might have taken an overdose of sleeping pills mixed with alcohol. You know what that means?”
Donald stared blankly into Norris’ eyes.
“You think his death is more than a natural one?” Donald asked. “He had health issues. It could have been a heart attack.”
“Alcohol and sleeping pills, Donald! Are you listening to me?” Norris said again, making sure his friend understood what was going on around him.
“That’s possible,” Donald said, managing to regain his senses. “He liked to drink vodka, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You think he took his own life? He committed suicide?”
“It’s certainly possible, Donald,” the chief said.
Donald circled the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. He opened the refrigerator door, closed it, then checked on the brewing coffee. He went to the sink and stared absently out the window into the backyard where he had grown up with his two younger brothers throwing baseballs and footballs. His mind raced forward and backward with a hundred questions seemingly crashing down all at once.
He was dressed like he was going somewhere.
“Suicide?” he asked out loud. Chief Norris did not respond.
“You know what will happen if the lab finds the pills and alcohol as contributing factors to his death, don’t you?” Donald stated alarmingly.
“Yes, Donald, I do. Most insurance companies do not pay off on premiums involving suicide.”
“Exactly!”
“Donald, another question,” Norris asked.
“Yes.” “Why was your father already dressed in a suit and tie? Was he going some place in particular today?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Donald said tersely. “I guess he figured he was going to hell!” Donald watched as his mother returned to the den. He followed behind. She got down on her knees. Donald thought she was about to pray over her husband. Instead she was on all four’s, stretching one arm behind the corner of the couch as if she had been through this process more than once. She found what the coroner missed.
She pulled out an empty vodka bottle and a piece of paper. She held the bottle in one hand and the piece of paper behind her back in the other.
“What’s behind your back?” Donald asked.
“Nothing. Just nothing,” she said.
Donald saw the coroner return to the den. He looked to be hurried.
“Mrs. Drummond, under law we must perform an autopsy and have our forensic science lab examine his body for foreign substances.” Rose bowed her head in silence and closed her eyes for a moment. She nodded to the coroner she understood.