Dance of Death (2 page)

For the next twenty months, the inexplicable logic of why someone would have wanted Brent Poole dead would become the greatest challenge for both Brent and Renee's family. An enormous amount of time, money, energy, resources and manpower from seven divisions of police authorities in South Carolina, North Carolina and Virginia would dedicate themselves to solving that riddle. Ultimately, the answer to that question would be determined by a court of law and the American justice system.

Renee was alone and frightened.

She sat still and looked at her husband as he struggled to live. He was still hanging on, but not by much. She stared at his body as he spasmed involuntarily. His blood continued to pulsate from the open wounds underneath his chin and above his left ear. Dripping from his head and onto the sand, it formed a bright red narrow stream, crawling over the sand and flowing toward the sea.

Renee felt as if somebody had poured hot molten lead into her stomach. The unavoidable trauma of having witnessed the shooting had been much too intense. She found it difficult to breathe and unconsciously kept pulling at her T-shirt. Her ears roared as if her head were being held down in a five-gallon bucket of water.

He needs help,
she silently repeated over and over.
He needs a doctor.

Renee tried to stand and felt the blood drain from her head. Her knees buckled. She tried again, but couldn't get her body to cooperate. Her brain seemed paralyzed.

“
Get help, get help,” she kept mumbling.

Renee finally swayed to her feet. She wanted to help Brent, but didn't know what to do. Everything was in a fog—like she was in some two-bit movie. Not really in it, but just standing on the outside watching the images of the shooting. In her mind's eye, the reel was stuck and the same scene played over and over again.

You've got to get help,
a voice inside kept repeating.

Renee was determined to override her physical body. She looked around, but there was no one else on the beach. She stood still and screamed, but nothing came out. She tried to scream a second time. Still nothing. Remembering the lights from the police car earlier on the beach, she looked to see if it was still there. It was.

Yes, I see it. There. On the beach.
A truck was coming toward her at about one hundred feet away. She'd stop the truck and get somebody to help her. Walking away from Brent's body, she staggered down the beach like a sunburned wino who had just finished off his last pint.

Even though it was near midnight, Myrtle Beach was still pulsating with people, mainly tourists and families beginning their summer vacation. Out on the boulevard, cars were backed up for miles, bumper to bumper. While the neon and fluorescent lights flooded the heart of town, a crowd of people in shorts and T-shirts strolled back and forth from the Pavilion Amusement Park and ocean to the hundreds of high-rise hotels and cottages that bordered the beaches. She could hear their laughter floating with the wind, but they were oblivious to Renee's pleas for help, the robbery and the shooting on the beach that had just occurred within a few blocks from them at Eighty-first Avenue North.

 

 

Twenty-three-year-old patrol officer Scott Brown had been assigned to the special unit of the Myrtle Beach Police Department (MBPD) officers that patrolled the beaches. Trained in both first aid and lifesaving procedures, this young and athletic officer seemed well-suited for the job. Brown was well-liked and respected by those who frequented in and around the beach.

At approximately 11:30
P.M
., that Tuesday, Officer Brown had been policing the north end of Myrtle Beach, just past Eighty-first Avenue North. As he continued cruising northward, he saw a Caucasian female dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans who was coming out of his headlights and over to the driver's side of his truck. She was not running and did not seem to be in a hurry, just advancing toward him at somewhat of a meandering pace. Even though she was the only person he saw in this area, he didn't pay any particular attention to her. To him, she was just another beach walker.

As Brown drove closer, he wasn't sure if she was walking toward or away from him. He looked around to see if there was someone else behind him, but didn't see anyone. It was very common for beach walkers to lose their sense of direction, then stop him and ask for guidance or instructions.

It had been a little breezy on the beach that night, and because of that, both of the windows in Brown's truck were up. Just as his vehicle approached the girl, she crossed the headlights onto the driver's side, and showed just enough of a wave to get his attention.

She is going to ask me a question,
Brown thought as he rolled his window down. He stopped in front of the attractive, dark-haired girl and stared at her. Early twenties. He leaned out the window and made eye contact.

“Can I help you, ma'am?”

The girl's hands were cupped and placed over her mouth, as if she were trying to catch her breath. She dropped her hands and calmly said, “Someone just shot my husband.”

“What?” he blurted out, not expecting to hear that. Even though there had been a few strong-arm robberies on the beach, where someone had assaulted a tourist and demanded money, he had never heard of anyone being shot.

“Someone shot my husband,” she repeated again.

He didn't know what to think. The girl kept her hands over her mouth and nose and was crying into her hands. She wasn't screaming or wailing, but had told him she had just witnessed her husband getting shot. He expected her to be upset, maybe even suffering from some type of emotional shock.

“Where is your husband?” he asked.

She pointed across the hood of the car and to the right-hand side, where the headlights pierced the breaking ocean waves.

Brown followed her penciled finger. He was not accustomed to seeing dead bodies lying on the beach at night. This was something of an anomaly—dead birds or dead fish, maybe—but never dead bodies.

The girl kept pointing toward the ocean. “He's down there.”

Brown turned his vehicle in the pointed direction and switched on the takedown lights. The white lights from his truck illuminated the area. He hoped she was making this story up. In his many lone nights on the beach, he'd encountered a number of persons suffering from mind-altered states, usually brought on by the consumption of alcohol or drugs, but none of them had ever claimed to have witnessed a murder. As he edged the truck closer toward the surf, he spotted what appeared to be a body lying in the sand at a distance of some sixty to eighty feet away.

Brown's heart skipped a beat. It was pumping adrenaline to his brain like a two-horsepower sump pump. “I am going to be out of my truck,” he radioed the dispatcher, who logged the call in at 11:45
P.M
.

Brown wasn't sure at first glance if it was indeed a body on the beach or not. He needed to keep the girl close to him and asked her to walk with him while he took a look. As he moved forward, his suspicions were confirmed, however, when he saw the form of a white male, unconscious, lying faceup in the sand. The victim was wearing blue jeans, a button-up striped shirt and white tennis shoes. His feet were facing the dunes and his head was pointing toward the water. It was a grotesque sight. His face was covered with blood. Some of the blood had pooled behind his head and spilled out and onto the sand, then formed a trail that reminded him of a sleek kite's tail.

Brown stood over the body and looked for wounds. He felt as if his feet had been nailed to the ground. He wanted to pull his eyes away, but he couldn't. The individual had been shot in the head and he stared at the fresh blood dribbling down both sides of his face and dripping off his head. To the right of the body, he saw what looked like a white beach towel with a blue fish blazoned across the front. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to get sick. It quickly passed and his attention was redirected toward the body.

As he leaned over to inspect the body, the girl beside him fell to her knees, then grabbed the man's hand. She began to cry and tremble. He felt a lump in his throat. In her lap, he noticed a pack of Marlboro Light cigarettes and what appeared to be a wedding ring in her hand. She was twisting the band of gold around and around in her hand as if she were screwing the cap on a bottle of pop.

It didn't take Brown long, just a matter of seconds, before he realized the potentially dangerous scenario. The truck's takedown lights and headlights were beaming down on them and the body, lighting up the area like a football field. There he was, standing over the body, and she was kneeling beside it. They were both wearing white shirts. Sitting ducks for a shooter who might have decided to come back and finish the job, intent on eliminating the sole witness. He knew the dying man needed attention, but if he stayed to help him, he could be jeopardizing his and the girl's safety. His main objective suddenly shifted from aiding the victim to getting them safely back to the truck.

“We need to get out of here,” he blurted out, his eyes focusing hard on the sand dunes. He reached down and tapped the girl lightly on her shoulder.

She didn't move.

He placed his hand in the middle of her back and lifted her up. “Come on, we've gotta get out of these lights.”

She nodded.

The slender girl let go of the injured man's hand and rose to her feet, then stepped away from the body and started running alongside Brown. When they reached the truck, he fumbled inside for his portable radio.

In technical police jargon, he announced, “This is Officer Brown. We've got a shooting here on the beach at Eighty-first Avenue. I need help. I repeat, I need another officer.”

Officer Scott Brown's call for police assistance was executed at 11:51
P.M
., some six minutes after his first transmission. After making the call, he opened the door of his truck and slid the girl in the driver's seat, then fixed himself in the apex of the door. Taking the oath of his duty “to serve and protect” to its highest level, he shielded her with his own body. With the threat of a killer still in the perimeter, there wasn't much he could do for the injured person. His first responsibility was to take cover and protect his witness. And that meant he had no choice other than to sit still, watch over the body and wait for the ambulance to arrive.

Brown tried to calm himself. “Ma'am, can you tell me what the shooter looked like?” His palms were sweaty.

“All I can remember is that he was dressed in black clothes and had a ski mask covering his face. He robbed us and ran toward that way.” She pointed in the direction toward the sand dunes, slightly south of the Eighty-second Avenue beach access.

“You say he robbed you?”

She nodded.

“What did he take from you?”

She gestured with her hands and touched her chest lightly, telling him she had been robbed of some necklace or other piece of jewelry. She was still trembling and crying and kept her hands cupped over her mouth and nose.

Brown shook his head, keeping his eyes peeled toward the sand dunes.

Private first class L. D. “Lewis” Aiossa, with the MBPD, was also on duty and had heard Brown's distress call. It took him only a few minutes to drive from Seventieth Avenue on King's Highway to Eighty-second Avenue North and cross over to the beach access. When he whipped his patrol car in at the access, he parked behind several vehicles, boxing them in. He knew they were potential witnesses and made damn sure they weren't going anywhere. Guaranteed. They'd have no choice but to sit and wait until he moved his car.

Aiossa hurried onto the wooden walk deck that led to the beach, where he spotted Officer Brown about 125 yards south. Brown was standing at the truck with his patrol lights on and talking with a female. As Aiossa moved cautiously toward them, he spotted in the shadows of the truck lights a body lying in the sand. The person had obviously been shot in the head, as indicated by the blood trail that flowed from his head and colored the sand.

“What happened here?” he asked, standing a few feet from the body.

“We had a robbery and a shooting.” Brown stepped away from the truck and gestured at the body. “The man's wife was able to describe the assailant as a man of unknown race, medium build, dressed in all black with a black mask. Heading westbound from this position on the beach, he ran toward the dunes.”

Aiossa radioed the information to 911 and asked for assistance from the emergency medical services (EMS). He needed medical attention for the victim and additional officers to help locate the shooter. The Myrtle Beach Fire Department (MBFD) was the emergency services closest to the scene at Eighty-second Avenue. Operating from the same building, Fire Unit #121 and Medic #22 shared responsibilities, servicing the northern area of the beach as both the fire department and the ambulance service. In the event of a critical situation, they would both respond.

Don Askey was a fire engineer for Myrtle Beach's Fire Unit #121. Because the officer normally in charge was on medical leave with a knee injury, Askey, a thirteen-year veteran, became the acting senior man responsible for directing three firemen and two paramedics. Years of alternating his workdays between fire fighting and construction work on the beach had deepened his tan and chizzled his six-foot body into a muscular 235 pounds. Perfect for the physical demands this job required.

It was almost midnight when the 911 operator dispatched Askey's unit. He and his coworkers had just finished cleaning up the station and equipment and were preparing for bed when they got the call about a gunshot wound. They loaded up their equipment and drove the engine out of the station house, following closely behind the ambulance.

On the way to Eighty-first Avenue, Askey discussed the call with his partners and they agreed there was something unusual about it. To their knowledge, a shooting had never occurred in this secluded area of the beach. Tourists normally stayed away from there. Askey commented further that he had responded to a lot of calls in his tenure with the fire department, some of them being gunshot wounds, but he couldn't recall if any of them—be it suicide or homicide—were ever committed on the beach itself. And in the thirteen years he'd been here, he had never responded a single time to this stretch of isolated beach.

Askey had heard only one complaint about this area near Eighty-first Avenue, and that was in relation to a homosexual group that would meet and gather at the beach access. He recalled someone in his unit relating an incident whereby this person let a friend borrow his four-by-four jeep one summer to go on the beach. He left it parked at the Eighty-second beach access and returned later to find several pamphlets advertising the Offshore Drilling club and other gay bars. They had been shoved in the console area of the open jeep.

The men got a good laugh out of Askey's story. It helped to ease the mounting tension.

Askey's vehicle arrived at the beach access a second ahead of the medic unit. Both rescue teams quickly parked and grabbed their equipment. As they hurried down the boardwalk, they could see the two officers on the beach standing near the truck talking to a young girl. One of the officers, Aiossa, saw them and came running to the end of the boardwalk to help carry their equipment. He led them through the sand and onto the beach, about 150 feet to where the lights from the truck intersected and illuminated the body lying in the sand.

Even though the receding tide had washed away the soft sand from the beach, the rescue squad still found it extremely difficult to maneuver while carrying all their life-support equipment. Every second counts when someone is dying, but carrying all that life-support equipment across the beach was easier said than done.

The five men quickly set down their equipment, fell to their knees, and went to work on the critically injured patient. Their patient was a Caucasian male who appeared to be in his early twenties, five feet six and was estimated to weigh about 150 pounds. They couldn't tell much of what he looked like, as his head was covered in blood. As they huddled around the wounded man, they could see the silhouette of a gunshot wound. He'd taken a hit at least once. Underneath the chin. After assessing the wound, they were convinced this young man was close to crossing death's door.

The fire-fighting paramedics Eric Tier and Sammy Vest strapped a heart monitor on their patient to see if he was still alive. They were able to pick up a faint heart rhythm.

“This guy is really fighting to live,” Tier remarked. He had learned from many years as a paramedic working on old people how to recognize quickly those who retained the will to live. In this young man's face, he saw a very strong desire to live.

Believing their victim was viable, the paramedics began advanced lifesaving procedures. While Tier suctioned the blood from the wounded man's mouth and throat and inserted the breathing tube, Vest was busy positioning the IV needle into his arm.

The thirty-seven-year-old Tier had responded to many gunshot victims in his career as a paramedic and knew how sensitive the head was to any blunt trauma. He had also seen CAT scans and X rays of a speeding projectile as it entered the soft tissue of the brain and ripped through the delicate vascular system. He once witnessed a ballistic test where a bullet was fired into a vat of Jell-O to demonstrate the shock waves that occur as a result and learned the same principle applied when someone was shot in the head. As the bullet enters the soft tissue of the brain, the shock waves emit tremendous pressure in all directions, known as “cavitation,” and will result in death, if not quickly relieved.

“It's severe head trauma,” Tier said, gritting his teeth. “This guy doesn't need a paramedic, he needs a surgeon.”

Tier had recognized his patient's biggest problem was his breathing. He needed CPR, so he called out for a flat board. But before they could do the chest compressions, he knew they had to get him out of the sand and onto a hard surface.

As paramedics Ginny Gregory and Charlie Miller joined in and worked feverishly on the patient, Don Askey could not help but overhear the young girl's story. Ten feet behind him on the sandy bank, she sat with the patrol officers, crying, and telling them what had happened. How they had been robbed and how her husband had been shot. Askey looked over his shoulder and stared expressionless at the girl for a few seconds. He heard bits and pieces of the conversation, then turned back around and focused on his patient. What he heard did not jive with what he saw. But, of course, he was less interested in the conversation behind him than he was with her wounded husband in front of him and what was going on there.

Askey's eyes locked on the crowd of onlookers and curiosity seekers who had begun gathering at the top of the beach. He watched to see if any of them fit the robber's description as given to the officers by the victim's wife. While the paramedics lifted the body and placed it atop the flat board, he glared toward the crowd like a bodyguard, looking for any sudden movements. If the shooter was still out there, he could just as easily take him out and the others who were trying to keep his intended victim alive. It was a trying moment. For his safety and the safety of his crew, he needed to get the victim out of there as soon as possible.

One of the patrol officers, who had just arrived on the scene, backed his four-by-four truck out on the beach so the firefighters and paramedics could load the victim into the back. The rescue team climbed in beside their patient and rode the short distance down the beach to the awaiting ambulance at the Seventy-seventh Avenue access. They were mindful every second of the way that a sniper, who could easily pick them off from his perched position, could be lurking nearby. For all they knew, this might have been a robbery, a drug deal gone bad or even a random killing. But whatever it was, it was as plain as the noses on their faces that whoever had shot this guy had wanted him dead in the worst way.

The injured patient was still alive when they loaded him from the truck, and he was still breathing when they slid him into the ambulance. Up until this time, the paramedics believed he had sustained only one gunshot wound—the one underneath his chin. But, once inside the cab, they could see in the light that he had taken a second hit. There, an inch above his left ear, was another bloody, gaping hole.

When the paramedics found out that the young man had two gunshot wounds, they were skeptical. The chances of him surviving were slim with one bullet to the brain. Now, with two bullets to the brain, it looked hopeless. In all likelihood, they knew he would be hard-pressed to make it. And, even if by some miracle he did survive—didn't have to be a brain surgeon to figure that one—the outcome would not be in his favor.

At approximately 12:20
A.M
., the ambulance headed toward the Grand Strand Regional Medical Center (GSRMC). With the blasting siren dividing the traffic like the parting of the Red Sea, they made the five-mile trip in a quick few minutes. When the ambulance came to a screeching halt underneath the covered breezeway leading to the emergency entrance, the rescue team jumped out of their vehicle like a pit crew at the Southern 500. Hurriedly they transferred their patient inside and headed for the trauma room, where the medical staff anxiously awaited.

On the way down the hall, Don Askey stared at the young man lying on the gurney still fighting for his life and wondered how this could have happened.

He's so young,
he thought
, with so much to live for and so many good times ahead. What kind of sicko would want to kill him and steal all of that away from him?