Water's Edge

Chapter 1

Usually when I’m out mountain biking, I set my cell phone on vibrate and just say to hell with it, if someone wants me badly enough, they’ll call back. But for some unknown reason, when I felt the soft pulse against my thigh, I pulled to the side of the trail. Blackout was up ahead of me and sensed that I had stopped. She put on the brakes, looked around in that alert way of hers, and came bounding back to my side. What is it now, her expression said.

I stood on the ground with the bike leaning between my legs and looked at the number. I recognized the area code immediately – it was in Massachusetts. The exchange looked oddly familiar too – I was pretty sure it was the same as the one at the company I used to work for.

David Samuels, I said. Logical, seeing as that was my name.

David, it’s Evan Ambler calling.

Evan, my gosh, how are you? My former boss. We had a good relationship and parted amicably, but I hadn’t heard from him since my departure.

Other than an occasional bout with an arthritic knee, you mean? Guess I can’t complain.

Same old Evan – had to make sure to lead with his troubles in an effort to garner sympathy. I recalled it was his way of disarming you before he laid a zinger on you.

I chuckled. Maybe it’s time to retire, I said.

Easy for you to say, he said with a sigh. "I may be getting older, but not richer. Got two kids in private college, y’know.

But David, I didn’t call to have a little chat about retirement. Actually I’m calling to ask for your help.

I was puzzled. How could I possibly help you, Evan?

What Evan Ambler said next put into play a sequence of events that turned my peaceful retirement into a roller coaster adventure I had no way of anticipating.

The firm’s been brought into rather an unusual case, Evan said. The EPA has contracted us to provide analysis of water samples from the French Broad River, which I guess runs through your neck of the woods. I heard him shuffling papers. It was just a standard request – they’ve been randomly monitoring the water quality of rivers that cut through two or more states since Nine-Eleven.

Go on, I said, but I was thinking Uh-oh.

Know anything about the French Broad? Evan asked.

Haven’t had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, I dead-panned. Evan groaned on the other end of the phone.

Actually, I continued, I know something about it. A local author by the name of Wilma Dykeman wrote a kind of Rachel Carson tribute to the French Broad years ago. Heck of a book. I finished reading it a few months ago.

Good, you have some background, then, Evan said. The French Broad was one of those industrially polluted waters before the Clean Water Act, but since the Seventies, the quality has improved dramatically. Been clean enough to support trout and wildlife. Lots of rafting goes on there too. Has become something of a showcase for what environmental activism can do. A lot of that in Asheville, I hear.

I knew Evan was just warming me up. I held my tongue, waiting for him to cut to the chase.

Anyway, here’s the thing, Evan said. Now I listened intently. The water analysis just came back. We got samples from various locations. Everything looked good except one reading that was off the chart. In one sample, I’m seeing over 20 ppbs of benzene.

I nearly dropped my cell phone. Ppbs represent parts per billion. That means one particle of benzene for 999,999,999 other particles.

Isn’t the standard limit for benzene in drinking water around 5 ppbs? I asked.

Yeah, that’s the MCL set by the EPA, Evan replied. The Europeans think it should be more like 1 ppb.

I let out a low whistle. Benzene is a known carcinogen that can cause leukemia.

Given the nature of the French Broad, Evan continued, "it’ll be hell to contain this. The waters from the basin eventually drain to the Gulf of Mexico. They flow into the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi Rivers.

The EPA’ll have its hands full just trying to deal with the spreading impact. They asked me if the firm could help in another way – find out how the hell benzene got there in the first place.

Now it was clear why Evan called.

So I thought of the one guy I knew who was the best damn environmental investigator I ever had working for me – and who happens to live right near the French Broad River, Evan said. I could almost see the smirk on his face.

Jeez, Evan, I don’t know, I…

David, listen, he said with urgency in his voice. I know you’re retired, and I’d never ask you to do this if it wasn’t huge. It’s not just the French Broad, which affects where you live. It might very well go beyond that. The EPA’s Office of Emergency Management has already been in touch with Homeland Security. They both agree the presence of benzene at this level of toxicity is either a giant case of illegal dumping, or it’s intentional pollution – could even be domestic terrorism.

Yeah, that occurred to me, I said. But I’m not a cop, Evan. This is a bit beyond my expertise.

I don’t think so, Evan said fervently. One thing I’m sure you haven’t lost, and that’s your unquenchable curiosity. And, of course, your dog. You still have Blackout, right?

Uh-huh.

If you and Blackout can find out the entry point of the benzene, and we can give the EPA any kind of lead on who might be doing this, they’ll take it from there. They’ll arrange for all the support you need, including law enforcement people. He paused. David, please consider it.

You already told them you thought I’d accept, didn’t you Evan?

The silence at the other end of the line was confirmation enough.

Okay, I admit I’m intrigued, I said. Just let me sleep on it and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.

* * *

I discussed the pros and cons of taking on this surprise assignment with Blackout. She listened intently. Despite looking me straight in the eyes and cocking her head once or twice, she could not make the decision for me, so I was left to make it on my own. Too bad she wouldn’t be more committal about it.

On the one hand, I was settling in rather nicely to an uneventful existence. No getting up at the crack of dawn to commute into Boston. No mortgage to pay. No need to set a daily goal, other than to ride a particular mountain bike trail. I was getting a full dose of culture at Asheville’s eclectic galleries, eating out at a slew of great restaurants, buying fresh fruits and vegetables at the Farmers Market, and feeling more fit than I felt in years. What’s not to like?

On the other hand, I needed something else to occupy my time. I had been volunteering for Friends of the Blue Ridge Parkway, manning the information desk at the Folk Arts Center. It gave me a place to go and made me feel like I was contributing to a worthy cause. I also dabbled with a blog on environmental issues, but that was just a sideline. As for real work, I didn’t need the money. I didn’t want to leave Blackout alone all day. I didn’t want to answer to a boss. So I resisted the urge to get a paying job. Still, I was wrestling with the need to feel that I still had some value in the world. Somehow, making money was validation.

It’s a funny thing being a fairly young retired boomer. You’re damned happy you don’t have to be part of the rat race any longer, but you feel like you’ve been put out to pasture – like you’re just kind of vegetating instead of doing something useful with your life. It’s like the bumper sticker says, Maybe the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about.

That pretty much summed up why I decided to tell Evan yes, I’d do it. Blackout wasn’t at all surprised. And neither was Evan. But the surprises were just beginning for me.

Chapter 2

I asked Evan to overnight me every detail he had – all the analyses, the locations at which the water samples were collected, and any background information. He also promised to send along contact names of anyone I might need to call upon. He told me what the firm had in mind for a per diem rate. I told him it was very generous and I would get to work at once.

I took Blackout for a brief ride south on Brevard Road, otherwise known as Route 191, until we came to the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Going south, I reached the first overlook almost immediately. It was at milepost 393, about 2100 feet above sea level. It provided a nice view of a portion of the French Broad. I scanned the river with my field glasses. I wanted to see what the victim looked like from afar.

Then I drove back down to 191, hung a right and a quick left, and stopped at a small parking lot right next to the river. It was a picnic area and a boat launch. Again, I scanned the river, this time from its bank. This section of the French Broad was particularly broad. Water flowed over the rocks in tiny rapids. The water was brown, like the Mississippi. Not the prettiest of colors.

I had done some research before I came to look at the river. It turns out the French Broad is one of the few north-flowing rivers in the country. Its starting point is in the town of Rosman, in Transylvania County. Despite its name, Transylvania isn’t famous for vampires, it’s famous for waterfalls. Four forks join together near Rosman to form the French Broad.

The French Broad winds its way throughout Asheville and surrounding areas. You see it outside and inside the city. It flows past Asheville’s River District, where old warehouses have been converted into artists’ studios. I happen to know a lot about the area, because I like art. The River District also has a self-service dog wash where I bathe Blackout when the smell of her coat is just too much to bear.

The river is a study in contrasts. Early on, it flows quietly and gently through woods, farmland, and the city. Downriver from Asheville, though, it goes through the mountains. That’s where the French Broad becomes whitewater. The water volume and gradient increase and the water rushes through seven major rapids. The serious paddlers and rafters love it, but I’ll stick to mountain biking, thanks. On its way to Tennessee, the river broadens out again.

The French Broad eventually hooks up with the Holston River near Knoxville, Tennessee. That’s ironic, since the Holston has been ranked one of America’s most polluted rivers. About fifteen years ago, it was number nineteen on the list of U.S. waters receiving the greatest amounts of toxic pollution. The Holston River used to be quite the dumping ground for industrial chemicals, although it’s been cleaned up recently.

There are a few injustices that piss me off royally. One of them is the destruction of our environment. Global warming is just part of the story. Polluting our water is about as bad as it gets. It can kill fish and birds. It can turn rivers, lakes or streams into waste water. It’s no surprise that water is the second most essential substance on earth, right after oxygen, so this is more than a minor inconvenience. It’s a goddamned ecological nightmare.

It doesn’t much matter how the pollution happens. But you can bet an inconsiderate human, an uncaring corporation, our wonderful government, or all three of them conspiring together had something to do with it. And there’s no way that benzene showing up in the French Broad could be an innocent little accident. Benzene doesn’t occur in nature. It is simply not supposed to be there.

It is with this admittedly self-righteous attitude that I intended to proceed with the investigation. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about keeping busy. This was an outrageous affront to all of us, and I wanted to do something about it.

* * *

Evan’s package arrived the next day and I spent most of the afternoon poring over the information. As always, Evan was thorough in his presentation of the facts. Among the documents were extensive water quality reports from the Division of Water Quality, North Carolina Department of Environment and Natural Resources. None of them indicated any obvious industrial or environmental reasons for excessive benzene.

There are 24 ambient monitoring stations in the French Broad River Basin, six of which are in the French Broad River itself. The Division of Water Quality performs monthly sample runs at the monitoring stations. Three of the French Broad River stations picked up the high benzene content. DWQ reported it to the EPA’s Water Management Division, Region 4 based in Atlanta. Evidence, at least, that government agencies can cooperate when they need to. Don’t bet on it happening too often, though. The EPA called in Evan’s firm to get independent tests done to corroborate the readings. Unfortunately, the results appeared to be valid.

A who to contact list was included in Evan’s package. The top two contacts were from the DWQ and the EPA. I called them both and played phone tag for a while. I reached the guy from the EPA in his Atlanta office first. His name was Brian Sumner. He said he’d be happy to help me, but most of what he knew was second-hand. He confirmed Evan’s statement to me that the EPA was up to their eyeballs in crisis management over this mess, and apologetically referred me to the North Carolina DWQ. I told him no problem, I’m already in the contact loop, thanks for your time, and good luck.

The DWQ’s contact was a woman named Julie Westman and she called me back soon after I hung up with Brian Sumner. Julie was practically breathless – sounded like she’d been running the marathon. She probably was, what with all hell breaking loose over the benzene thing. Julie said she had been asked to show me every consideration, and she was happy to help with whatever information I needed. I asked her if it was possible to meet face-to-face. She said that would be fine – she worked out of the Asheville Regional Office in Swannanoa and wondered if I would like to meet her there. Knowing that government employees don’t get out much, I asked if it would be okay to meet for lunch in Black Mountain, a small town about ten minutes from her office. I might have been imagining it, but it seemed like she jumped at the chance. We agreed to meet at noon at Pepper’s Deli in the center of town. I told her I’d be the one wearing an environmental grimace on my face.

There is simply no shortage of mountain views in western North Carolina. Somehow, they all look different. The Blue Ridge Mountains do, in fact, look blue most of the time, because of the hydrocarbons being released by trees. But their appearance is constantly changing based on light and weather conditions. Sometimes they are as clear as a bell, other times they are shrouded in willowy white. Nothing like it that I’ve ever seen before.

As I drove East on 40 towards the town of Black Mountain, the Black Mountain range was highlighted by brilliant sunshine. I put down the window on my hybrid (what else would I be driving) and I breathed in the air. It was so clean it hurt.

Black Mountain is a charming, sleepy little town of about 7500 people. The town calls itself The Front Porch of Western North Carolina. I don’t know who comes up with this promotional stuff but it works. Black Mountain definitely has that front porch kind of feel to it. The town has a downtown a few blocks long with shops and restaurants, and a couple of inns a little further outside the center. About as picturesque as a Rockwell painting. Everybody’s nice. You feel as if you’ve known them all your life.

Pepper’s Deli is a place with character on Cherry Street in the center of town. It has decent food at good prices, plus an odd-ball collection of Dr. Pepper memorabilia. Amazing what people will collect when they have time on their hands.

I am Mr. Punctuality, so I entered Pepper’s at the stroke of noon. I didn’t see anyone resembling a woman from DWQ so I took a seat at a small table and waited. About ten minutes later, a young woman came in. She looked a bit frazzled. I figured it had to be Julie. She couldn’t help but notice a dapper older gentleman with salt and pepper hair (little if any balding, thank goodness) and a twinkle in his eye. She came right over to me. Actually, that wasn’t quite the case. I caught her eye and smiled, and then she came right over to me.

Mr. Samuels?

I nodded.

Julie Westman. Sorry I’m late.

Please, call me David. No worries, I just arrived myself.

Men can’t help but evaluate a woman’s appearance. It’s part of our DNA. Some are more obnoxious about it than others. I am not one of those, but I still like to look.

I figured Julie Westman was probably in her mid-thirties. She had a nice enough face, intelligent blue eyes, shoulder-length chestnut hair. The fact that she had a good figure didn’t escape me, either. A runner’s body. Could be when I talked to her earlier, she had just finished running a marathon.

Maybe we should order first, I said pleasantly. And since you were kind enough to meet me on short notice, I hope you’ll let me pay for lunch. Always the chivalrous one, I am.

That’s very nice of you, Julie said with a smile.

We ordered and got right down to business.

I’ve read the reports, I began, so I know what we’re dealing with in terms of the toxicity of the pollutant. I have a couple of questions regarding the introduction of benzene into the French Broad. What’s the possibility of point-source pollution?

It’s pretty unlikely, Julie said. It’s been years since there’s been an industrial pollutant introduced by an industrial operation on the French Broad. We don’t have any knowledge of anyone locally using benzene as a primary or secondary chemical, either. The water quality has improved continuously, and we keep a close eye on it.

Then what’s your opinion of how it was introduced? I asked.

Well, assuming this was intentional and not accidental, someone must have had to literally be pouring drums of this stuff directly into the river. The level is too high for it to be a small-volume introduction.

How could that occur, do you think?

Julie shook her head. I don’t know. I guess someone could have trucked it in at night, to a relatively protected section of the river, or a feeder creek. I think it would probably take several people to do it.

Why benzene?

I’ve been wondering that myself, Julie said. "Whoever it was had to be well-financed, because the price of benzene these days is sky-high. It’s a by-product of oil refining – a key component in plastics, paints, and synthetic rubber. It isn’t hard to obtain but it sure is costly. That’s why I don’t think this is a case of illegal dumping.

Yet it’s effectiveness as a poison may be one of the reasons they used it, Julie continued. It dissolves quickly in the air but only slightly in water, so the water acts as a carrier while the benzene retains maximum potency. Of course, benzene is a proven carcinogen. It’s nasty stuff – metabolizes in the body and causes leukemia. I’m assuming whoever did this knew all about its toxic qualities.

One thing puzzles me, Julie, I said. The French Broad isn’t used to supply drinking water here. As I understand it, that comes from the Mills River basin. So if someone is trying to poison the water, why introduce benzene into the French Broad?

True, we don’t use the water to drink here, Julie replied, but they do use it in Knoxville and Newport, Tennessee. The French Broad is unusual for a river – it flows north to East Tennessee.

I thought about that for a minute. Could be someone has an ax to grind with East Tennessee, then, I said.

That’s a logical assumption, Julie agreed.

Can you think of what the reason might be?

Julie pondered it before answering. Poison the drinking water of Knoxville? I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that.

We chatted a while longer but I didn’t learn anything more that would be helpful to my investigation. I did have one small request of Julie. I asked her if she could get a small sample of industrial quality benzene for me. She asked why and I told her I wanted my dog to become familiar with the smell. We talked a little about Blackout’s work as a chemical-sniffing dog. She understood and said she would have a sample hand-delivered to my home.

I thanked Julie for her time and asked her if I could be in touch if I thought of any additional questions.

I left the restaurant and decided to stroll around Black Mountain while I thought about what I had found out. It wasn’t much, but my gut told me a few things that I couldn’t deny. Somebody, probably a few people, had the funds to get their hands on enough benzene to turn running water into a killing machine. Either they paid someone else off to look the other way while they poured the stuff into the French Broad, or they introduced it in an inconspicuous place during the dark of night. It was a brazen thing to do without being noticed, but not out of the question.

There was always a possibility whoever did this was committing environmental vandalism