by B J Bourg
“I didn’t talk to Lenny this morning. I was sleeping.”
“That’s not what he says—and it would’ve been early, before you went to sleep.”
“You talked to Lenny?” His tone was accusatory. “What did he say?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” I certainly didn’t want to suggest anything to him. When dealing with suspects who abused drugs and alcohol, I was very careful not to provide too much information pertaining to the case. In their uncertain and confused state, it could be easy to convince them that they had committed the offense in question, although they were completely innocent.
If Junior had detailed information that would implicate himself in the murder of his mother, I needed him to volunteer it, and I needed it coming from his independent recollection—not from something I suggested.
“I didn’t—I mean, I don’t remember talking to him.”
“Is it possible you spoke to him?”
Junior turned his hollow eyes downward and sat there staring at his hands for a moment. “I guess it’s possible.”
“Did you get high last night?”
“I get high every night.” He chuckled, but then stopped abruptly when he realized I wasn’t amused. “Um, yeah, I was a little high last night.”
“What would you say if your brother said he talked to you this morning?”
“Lenny?” His face scrunched up curiously.
“Do you have any other brothers?” I asked.
“Nope, just Lenny.”
“If Lenny said he spoke to you, what would you say to that?”
“I mean, if he said he talked to me, then he must’ve talked to me.”
“But you don’t remember?”
He shook his head. “No, sir.”
I sighed and didn’t ask another question until we had arrived at the police department and I’d parked under the building.
CHAPTER 42
4:53 p.m.
Over 57 hours missing…
“Do you need anything to eat or drink?” I asked Junior once we had stepped out of my SUV and begun walking up the large concrete steps to the police department, with Amy bringing up the rear. “There’s a restaurant right down the street and I’d be happy to get you a burger or something.”
“No, sir.” He stood back while I opened the door, and then walked through it. “I would like a cigarette though, if you have one.”
I shook my head and shot a thumb in Amy’s direction. “Sorry, but we don’t smoke.”
“I can run down the street and get him a pack,” Amy offered, pausing in the doorway. “I don’t mind.”
Junior’s eyes lit up, so I nodded and watched as Amy descended the steps two at a time. When she made it to the sidewalk, I turned back to Junior. “Let’s go inside and get started while she buys your cigarettes.”
Junior nodded and followed me down the hallway, past the dispatcher’s station, and into the first interview room. I showed him to a chair and sat beside him.
“Alright, Junior, tell me what you and Lenny talked about.”
He leaned forward, resting his boney elbows on his kneecaps. The sore he’d been scratching earlier had stopped bleeding, but there was dried blood caked on his face around the wound.
I waited at least two minutes. When he didn’t answer, I asked if he remembered the conversation at all.
“I’m trying—I really am—but I don’t remember if I did or not. If he said I did, then I must have. I just don’t remember.”
“Fair enough. Do you remember when you saw your mother last?”
“Um, I think it was Monday morning before I went to sleep. She was sick and throwing up. It grossed me out, so I got some food and left.”
I didn’t want to suggest anything about the sugar, so I tried to get him talking about it on his own. “Do you remember what was on the table when you went to her house?”
“Let’s see…there was a cereal box, and a dirty bowl that she ate the cereal out of, and I think the sugar was out.”
“What do you remember about the sugar?”
“Huh?”
I took a breath. I was trying to be patient, but I could feel Rose’s life slipping away with every second it took me to deal with Junior. What if the two cases aren’t even connected? I thought. What if this is a complete waste of time, when I could be out there helping lead the search for the poor young girl?
“Did you eat any of the sugar?” I asked, hoping it would trigger some kind of memory.
“Um, I probably did,” he said. “I like sugar, so I’m sure I ate some of it.”
Not that sugar, I thought, or you’d be dead.
I wasn’t sure how far I could press Junior, so I decided to jump in a little. “Junior, did you do anything to your mom?”
He pushed off of his knees and scrunched up his skinny face. “What do you mean by that? Did I do something to my mom—what kind of question is that? What would I have done to my mom?”
“Did you kill your mom?” I asked the question slow and smooth, as though I were asking him if he brushed his teeth.
He recoiled in horror and nearly fell off his chair. “Wait, is my mom dead? Is that what you’re saying?” He glanced around the tiny room, panic beginning to show in his tired face. “Are you saying she’s gone?”
I hesitated, not knowing what kind of emotional damage it would do to him.
“Dear Lord, it’s true, isn’t it?” He slid from his chair and dropped to his knees on the floor. He made wailing sounds, but no tears formed in his eyes. “That’s why there was no food in the kitchen today and yesterday.”
“Do you know what could’ve happened to her?” I asked once he had stopped his hollering. He was unstable from his drug use, and it was hard to read him. “Do you have a clue about how she might’ve died?”
“I didn’t even know she was gone.” He pulled himself to his chair, sat there shaking his head. “What am I going to do if she’s gone?” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head violently. “This can’t be happening. Are you sure it’s her?”
“I’m positive. Do you have any idea how she died?”
“No, sir. I don’t know who could’ve killed her.”
“What makes you think she was murdered?” I wanted to know.
“Well, I just thought since you’re asking me questions, then she must’ve been murdered. Y’all don’t question people like this when someone has a heart attack, right? I thought I heard y’all only haul people down to the station when y’all think they did something wrong.”
“Do you think you did something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just…I don’t really remember if I did anything wrong. If I did, then Jesus must’ve told me to do it. He’s the only one I listen to when I’m high.”
I scowled as I studied Junior’s face. I knew it had to be him, but I didn’t know how I was going to prove it, and I didn’t even know if he was culpable, considering he might’ve been so high he didn’t even know what he did.
I looked up when the door to the interview room opened and Amy walked in. “I looked through the glass and saw that no one was talking,” she explained.
I told her it was okay and watched as she turned toward Junior. She dangled a pack of cigarettes in the air. “Are you ready for one?” she asked.
Junior looked up like a hungry dog, his mouth wide and his hands dangling in front of him. I thought he was going to leap into the air and snatch the pack from Amy’s outstretched hand, but he didn’t.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m ready for one,” he said. “Please, I need a cigarette so bad. My nerves are shot. I just found out my mom’s dead.”
Amy cast an inquisitive glance in my direction to see if it was okay for her to take Junior out for a cigarette, and I nodded. She turned toward Junior. “Are you ready to take a walk outside for a smoke?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes, please!”
I followed them out of the interview room but stopped near the dispatcher’s station. “Hey, Lindsey, can
you keep an eye on this kid if I lock him in the interview room?” I asked. “Amy and I need to check out Bill’s Jewelry and Pawn.”
“Jesus, if y’all need some extra cash just say so,” she said, a grin flashing across her face. “There’s no need to pawn your guns. I might not have much, but I’ll loan you what I have. Just please don’t pawn your stuff.”
I grinned in return. “I’d pawn my left arm before I’d part with any of my guns.”
CHAPTER 43
After Amy and I had locked Junior in the interview room for safekeeping—he had objected to the door being locked until we told him that all he had to do was pick up the phone and call Lindsey if he wanted to go to the bathroom or get something to drink—we hurried to my Tahoe and I fired up the engine, racing toward lower Chateau Parish, which was just north of town. I’d heard of Bill’s Jewelry and Pawn and I knew where it was located, but I’d never been inside.
When we reached the strip mall where the pawn shop was located, I turned into the parking lot and stepped wearily from my Tahoe. I was ready for another nap, but I didn’t have time. I asked Amy if she had gotten any sleep, and she said she’d taken a little nap earlier.
“It wasn’t nearly enough, but it’ll have to do, I guess.”
I just nodded as we stepped up onto the sidewalk and approached a door boasting a sign that read: Welcome to Bill’s Jewelry and Pawn, where you’ll get the best deals from dusk till dawn.
Amy hesitated with her hand on the knob. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Why’s that?”
“That would mean he’s open throughout the night. I know dusk doesn’t rhyme with pawn, but the sign should read “from dawn till dusk,” since he’s closed between dusk and dawn.”
I shrugged and let myself in. A bell jingled loudly when I pushed the door inward.
“Are you Bill? Bill Welch?” I asked the elderly man who sat on a stool behind the glass counter. It looked like he was trying to grow his forehead back to his neck, and the little bit of hair he did have was white. He wore an expensive button down shirt that was open wide at the neck, exposing a thick gold chain with a boat anchor attached to it.
He shifted a pair of rimless glasses on his nose and nodded. “Can I help you?”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my images, stopping when I found a picture of the empty jar of baby food. I turned my phone so he could see the screen. “Do you recognize this jar?”
He peered through his glasses and his eyes widened. “I do recognize it. How’d you get a hold of that? I hope you didn’t open that jar.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, for starters, I ask how you got a hold of it because I never get rid of those jars. Next, if you opened it, you could get poisoned. That’s what I store my potassium cyanide in. I use it to clean some of the jewelry I service.”
“I was afraid of that.” I shook my head and turned to look at Amy. She was frowning. I turned my attention back to Bill. “Do you know how anyone could’ve gotten their hands on this jar?”
“I mean, they must’ve stolen it. Like I said, I never get rid of those jars, and I would recognize them anywhere.” He pointed to the side of the jar, where the name of his company was displayed. “This is my handwriting, so this is definitely my jar.”
I glanced around the shop. There were tools, musical instruments, and appliances strewn all about the place. Price tags ranged from a few dollars for an old drill to a couple thousand dollars for a drum set. Within the glass counter on which we leaned, there were handguns, jewelry, high-end knives, and a few stun guns. I’d noticed a number of strategically-placed surveillance cameras mounted to the ceiling and in every corner.
I pointed to the cameras. “Do those things work?”
“They do, but they only go back a month or so.” Bill removed his glasses and leaned closer, resting his hairy arms on the glass countertop. “Do you mind telling me where you found my jar? I get a lot of customers in and out of here, but I don’t know all of them. Some are locals, but many are from out of town. I sure hope it’s not someone I know and do business with on a regular—”
“Ricky Bradberry,” I said, cutting him off. When Bill nearly fell off his stool, I knew he was familiar with Ricky. “We found it under the sink in his kitchen, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t even know it was there.”
“How is that possible?”
“We think his son might’ve been the one who took it. Do you know Junior, and has he ever been in the shop before?”
“Well, yeah, he’s been in here quite a few times. He sometimes comes here with Big Ricky and he sometimes comes alone.”
“When’s the last time Ricky or Junior have been in here?” I asked. “I need a date and a reason for the visit.”
“Let’s see…” Bill pushed himself up and labored to get off the stool. When he was finally on his feet, he held onto the counter and made his way to an old computer that rested atop the counter. After a few minutes of digging, he looked up over his glasses. “Ricky was in here three weeks ago—it was on a Saturday morning, December sixteenth, at nine sharp—to purchase a handgun.”
“What kind of handgun was it?”
“It was a Glock 22.” Bill looked down at the computer screen again. “He bought that and a box of bullets.”
“Was Junior with him?”
Bill was thoughtful. “I really don’t remember. He’s been in here so many times, sometimes with Junior and sometimes not, that all of the visits start to run together, if you know what I mean.”
“Where do you keep your cyanide? And how would someone get their hands on it?”
Bill shot a thumb to a large safe behind the counter. “That’s where I keep it, and there’s no way anyone’s getting inside it without the combination.” He stabbed at his temple with an index finger. “And I’m the only one who knows the combination. I’ve never told a soul and I’ve never written it down anywhere.”
I held up my phone. “But someone did get a hold of one, as is evidenced by this photograph.”
His brow furrowed. “I know what you’re saying, but I don’t know how it’s possible.”
“Do you mind pulling up the footage from the day Ricky Bradberry was here last?” I pointed to the camera facing the back of the counter. “Maybe the camera covering that area might shed some light on how a jar of cyanide walked out of this building.”
Bill seemed skeptical, but he moved toward the front of the store and flipped the sign to Closed. He then locked the door and led me around the corner and toward the back of the building. Amy looked up from where she was plucking the strings on an old guitar, called after me, “Did you know I used to be a rock star when I was in high school?”
“You break it, you buy it,” Bill grumbled, “and I don’t care that you’re the law.”
“I might buy it anyway.” Amy turned away from the guitar and fell in behind me. “It’s a nice piece.”
Bill grabbed a tall stack of junk mail from his desktop and tossed it to the side. Muttering something to himself about firing the maid, he dug around for the mouse and then shook it to wake up the monitor. It was painfully obvious he didn’t access the system very often, because he fumbled with the controls, talking himself through the process.
“Maybe if you click on the Search button,” I offered.
Without responding, he clicked the button and grunted when the calendar appeared. “What date did I tell you?”
“December sixteenth,” I said, glancing at Amy, who was standing behind the man.
“So, how much will you take for that guitar?” she asked.
Bill navigated the mouse over the camera that covered the counter and clicked on it to enlarge the screen. “Three hundred.”
“Three hundred? You must be talking about quarters.”
“Nope, I’m talking three hundred Washingtons or three Benjamins.”
Amy scoffed. “I wouldn’t give you more than fifty for it—maybe a hundred if y
ou throw in an amplifier.”
“Do I get to pick the amplifier?” Bill asked without looking up from the monitor. He had increased the speed on the playback and was flying through the seven o’clock hour.
“Sure.” Amy shrugged. “One Benjamin for the guitar and the amplifier of your choice, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Bill grinned, shot a thumb over his shoulder. “Go ahead and pick any amplifier from off of the back wall. They’re all in decent shape.”
Amy walked to the back wall and I could hear her humming to herself as she rummaged through the amplifiers. Bill had finally passed eight-thirty on the surveillance footage when Amy joined us again, hefting an amplifier in her right hand. “I’ll take this one. Do you accept checks?”
Bill grunted and slowed down the player when it approached nine o’clock. “Nice try, but I only accept cash. It’s written on the door and above the counter.”
Amy dug in her right breast pocket and removed four twenties, slapped them on the table. She was about to turn and walk off to get her guitar when she froze in place. Her brow furrowed and her jaw hung open. “Wait a minute, stop the film right there!”
Bill quickly hit the pause button and looked up at Amy. “What is it?”
“That guy with Ricky Bradberry, I don’t know his name but I know him. I’ve seen his face before.”
CHAPTER 44
I studied the surveillance footage. Bill had hit the pause button right at nine o’clock, when it captured two men approaching the counter. In the video, Bill was working on some jewelry and there was a small jar on the counter next to him. My heart began to race a little. It looked identical to the jar of cyanide I’d recovered from Katrina Bradberry’s house.
As I watched, the two men approached the counter and Bill grabbed the jar and turned to put it in the safe. At least he exercises due care, I thought, but then changed my thinking when I realized he hadn’t even bothered to lock the steel door to the safe.