by B J Bourg
I couldn’t get inside the head of anyone capable of committing such a senseless and heinous act, so I didn’t offer an opinion. While we needed to wait for the crime lab to process our evidence, our initial finding was that this was a murder-suicide, and we had identified the killer as Carl Duval, Jennifer’s brother. The younger woman found dead was Carl’s wife, Annie, and the older woman was his mother-in-law, Francine. The two children were identified as his own. Rebecca was twelve years old and Lex was five.
All of the victims’ hands had been secured behind their backs using heavy duty zip ties. We’d found an open pack of the ties on the garage floor, and the plastic bag had been recovered as evidence, with an eye toward having it fingerprinted in the crime lab. The serial number on the shotgun had been obliterated, and I found myself wishing Carl were alive so I could ask him about that. I was hoping the lab could raise the number, but that wasn’t always possible. It just depended how deeply they’d filed the number.
“You think maybe his beef wasn’t with Jennifer, so that’s why he left her alive?” Susan was still standing outside my Tahoe, her nose wrinkled inquisitively. “Maybe his wife cheated on him—we should explore that angle—and that’s why he murdered her. If he wanted to make her suffer, it would make sense to kill the kids first and force her to watch.” She paused and shuddered at the raw evilness of that prospect before continuing. “The mother-in-law, well, that was probably lagniappe for him. I know how most men hate their mother-in-laws and would—”
“Hey, I love my mother-in-law,” I interjected. “Your mom’s cool.”
Susan smiled and her face filled with warmth. “I’m really glad y’all get along.”
I only nodded, glancing down at my watch and wondering where the coroner’s investigators were. I couldn’t leave until they retrieved the bodies, and I had a lot of evidence to process and package for transport to the lab before I could interview Mr. Duval. He might hold some of the missing pieces of this screwed up puzzle and I couldn’t wait to interview him.
“Did you get word from Takecia?” I asked.
Susan said she’d received a text message from Takecia a few minutes ago saying Jennifer’s condition was stable but her future uncertain. According to Takecia, the doctor had met with Jennifer’s dad and told him it would be a long day, and an even longer night. He had used the word “miracle” and told the elderly man to prepare for the worst.
What I wouldn’t have given at that moment for a bit of good news—a ray of sunshine. Since I figured it wouldn’t be coming, I decided to turn my attention toward what made me the happiest, and that was my own family.
After mouthing a silent prayer to God, thanking Him for my wife and daughter, I asked Susan if she’d heard from my mom, who was supposed to be watching Grace while Susan and I were out here at the scene. It was Saturday and I was usually off on weekends, but when a murder occurred, there were no weekends and no vacations. I was grateful that this was the first murder we’d had in town in over a year, but I wondered why it had to involve children.
“I called your mom a few minutes ago, right after I finished locking up the garage and stapling crime scene tape across the doors and windows. She said Grace was still sleeping.”
“She must’ve partied hard at the parade last night.” I frowned. “I wish I could’ve seen her.”
“She was happy. I was tempted to pull out of the parade and spend the rest of the night right there with her—” Susan stopped talking and we both looked toward the highway when the first coroner’s van rumbled into view. It was followed in short time by another, and then another. Susan pursed her lips and the dimple on her left cheek deepened. “I’ll head home to check on her just as soon as we get the bodies loaded up.”
I let out a long sigh. “This was senseless, Susan. Just plain senseless.”
She nodded, but didn’t say a word. Melvin—still covered in mud from crawling under the house to recover the shotgun slugs—was sitting on the tailgate of his truck with Baylor, and Amy Cooke was standing a few feet away. They all regarded the coroner’s vehicles as they filed into the driveway and pulled to a stop in front of the garage door. It was a haunting visual and a damned sad end to some good lives.
The chief investigator of the coroner’s office stepped out of the first van and approached our officers and asked who was in charge. I pushed myself out of my vehicle. “I guess I’d better take this.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Susan asked, putting a hand on my chest. “I’m worried this might have reminded you of…”
She didn’t say it. Hell, she didn’t need to. Of course it reminded me of the day Abigail had been murdered, but so did everything. The breeze could blow a certain way or I could detect a certain scent or some young girl could call for her dad or a gunshot could go off, and then every detail of Abigail’s short life would come flooding back to me. Some would say it was torture, that everything would be better if I could just forget it all. But I was glad I could still remember her, that I could still see her face. Sometimes, when things got too rough and I couldn’t see her face clearly in my mind’s eye, I’d pull out the picture of her that I carried in my wallet and I would stare at it for long periods of time.
“It’s okay,” I finally said, barely recognizing my own voice. “I’ve got to finish up here. Why don’t you go on home and tend to Gracie? I’ll join y’all as soon as I can.”
“When will the autopsies be?”
“Dr. Wong said she’ll do them later today.” Dr. Louise Wong was our local coroner, and she was a damn good pathologist. I’d seen her just last week at Cig’s Gas Station while fueling up my Tahoe and she’d remarked about how nice it had been to not have autopsied a murder victim in over a year. When I called her a few hours ago, she’d cursed herself for jinxing us. I told Susan about our conversation, then added, “Considering we’ve got five bodies, she’s calling in some backup.”
Susan nodded her understanding and then shot a thumb toward Achilles and Coco, whose heads had come together between the seats and who were making out with their huge doggie tongues. “Want me to take the love birds home with me?”
“Please do. I don’t think the hospital would like it if they sat in on my interview with Mr. Duval.”
CHAPTER 14
It was almost eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning in Central Chateau and the hospital’s waiting room was dead. Chateau General was twenty minutes north of town—give or take ten minutes, depending on speed of travel—and I’d taken the time to eat a burger while I drove. I still had a sip of Coke left in my Styrofoam cup when I arrived. I swallowed it down and dropped the cup in a garbage can on my way to the nurse’s station. I recognized the nurse standing over the receptionist behind the counter and smiled. Her name was Kim Billiot and I’d seen her once before when I’d had to get a large grappling hook removed from my left calf. She smiled, but there was sadness in her blue eyes.
“Hey, Clint, how are you?”
“I’m good. I need to speak with Mr. Chuck Duval.”
“Carl’s dad?”
I nodded, then stopped and cocked my head to the side. The name had rolled off her tongue like it was in familiar territory. “Do you know Carl?”
“Not really, but I was good friends with Annie.” It was then that I noticed the puffiness around her eyes and the napkin shoved into the breast pocket of her scrubs. I had been thrown off by the bright white color of her eyes, but suddenly remembered the magic of Visine-A. “I met Jennifer once when Annie and I went to the city for the day. She’s really cool and…and I just can’t believe it.”
Tears began to flow down her eyes and she quickly looked away. “You can go see Mr. Duval now, if you like. They’re in Room 224. You know where the elevators are.”
I frowned and walked away, making a mental note to come back and question Kim. She was good friends with Annie, so she might know something about the relationship between her and Carl.
I made my way through the hospital and soon
found myself standing outside of Room 224. The door was ajar and I peeked in before knocking lightly. I could see Mr. Duval sitting at the edge of a stiff two-person sofa. He was bent over, holding his head in his hands. He wore a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. They were worn from years of use, but appeared clean.
He looked up when I knocked. He quickly stood to his feet when he realized who I was. As he approached the door, I was instantly aware that he’d never seen the Visine-A commercial where they promised to “get the red out.”
“Mr. Duval, I’m Clint Wolf.” I held out my hand. “I’m terribly sorry—”
“I know who you are.” Despite his sorrow, the words were sharp around the edges, and I realized Jennifer must’ve told him about us. Not recently, I was sure, but I knew it didn’t matter. If he’d heard my name once and it was years ago, he would never forget it. A father never forgets.
“If it would make you feel better, I could have someone else ask the questions.”
He rubbed his tired face and then waved his hands dismissively. “I feel just fine talking with you. Jennifer never said you mistreated her. She just said you didn’t love her back and, well, as sad as it was for her mom and me to see her broken-hearted, there’s no crime against not loving someone.”
I felt deflated. Like he’d hit me in the gut with Thor’s hammer—although I knew it wasn’t a hammer, thanks to an eleven-year-old boy I’d met a while back. I had been speaking to his sixth grade class at the middle school, and the boy had scolded me for calling it a hammer. “It’s a Mjolnir,” he had said. “My dad says hammers are for carpenters.” I didn’t even know how to pronounce the word.
I glanced around the room, noticed that Chuck’s wife was sound asleep in the hospital bed and snoring gently. She was connected to a number of machines that were blinking and beeping intermittently. A small zipper pouch and a clear syringe with an orange plunger were on the table, and I recognized it to be an insulin travel kit. I wondered how sick she was, and how much damage this stress would do to her body.
“I don’t want to disturb your wife,” I said quietly. “Would you like to talk in the waiting room around the corner?”
He nodded and took a last look at his bride of many years to make sure she was comfortable before walking out with me. I could hear him sniffling gently as we walked, and it continued as we took seats in a smaller waiting room on the second floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say to console the man. Of course it didn’t help. Hell, nothing could help, and I knew that first hand.
“Everyone I love is either gone or about to go.” Mr. Duval’s voice was low and gruff. “How could God let this happen to one man? I swear I feel like Job from the Old Testament, only without the money.”
I nodded and waited while he cried softly, his giant tears falling from his bowed head and splashing to the floor. They made a puddle around his feet and I absently thought we’d have to get someone with a mop to wipe it up or someone might slip and fall.
We probably sat there—neither of us saying anything—for about twenty minutes before he looked up. His eyes were severely swollen and bloodshot. “I need you to understand something, Chief,” he whispered. “If my wife and daughter die, there’s nothing left for me here.”
I hadn’t told him I was the chief of detectives and it surprised me, until I quickly realized he must’ve read my badge. Ah, an observant man, this one.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he pressed.
I nodded solemnly, not passing judgment. “I do understand, sir. More than you know.”
“No, I know. I’ve heard. Everyone in La Mort knows what happened to your wife and daughter.” With that, he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready to answer your questions.”
“Do you know what brought Jennifer to town?” I began, trying to get the easy questions out of the way first.
“I have no idea. We don’t hear from Jenny or Carl very much, but I do know they’re close. My wife once told me they speak to each other every day, but…” He paused for a long moment. “I know they’re busy with their work and Carl with his family, and it’s just the way life goes, you know? Things change and your little eagles grow wings and fly away. Sometimes they come back to visit, sometimes they don’t.”
I detected a hint of guilt in his voice and my face twisted curiously, wondering what was going on. Mr. Observant noticed my expression and took a breath.
“I’ve always loved my kids dearly and tried to be the best father I could be, but I’ve made some mistakes in my life. I put my job before my family a lot, sacrificing time at home for long hours at work in order to build a better life for them, or so I told myself. Even when I was home I wasn’t available. I was always thinking about work, so every time they tried to talk to me our conversations were mostly one-sided affairs. I didn’t think they noticed, but they did. Every time I said ‘not now’ or ‘maybe later’ and then ‘later’ never came, well, trust me when I say they remembered.” He scowled, and it was an ugly expression, filled with regret. “Now that I’m retired and have all the time in the world, they don’t have time for me. I don’t think they’re paying me back for all those wasted years. It’s not intentional, you see. They were accustomed to me being gone. I mean, you don’t miss what you never had and they never had me home, so they don’t think to call or stop by now that they’re grown.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he stopped me by lifting a hand. “I heard you remarried,” he said. “Do you have kids?”
I nodded, almost feeling guilty. “I have a daughter. Grace. She’s almost ten months old.”
“You make damn sure you drop what you’re doing and talk to her when she has something to say. Don’t get so wrapped up in work that you forget to go home. Don’t be that guy in Cat’s in the Cradle.” He paused, thoughtful, and then nodded. “And make sure to take your family on a vacation every year, at which time you will unplug from work and give them your undivided attention.”
I only nodded as I studied this man, wondering what he used to do for a living. I couldn’t remember Jennifer ever mentioning it. Although it had nothing to do with the investigation, I posed the question to him.
“I was a cop. I worked the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans for ten years before signing on with the La Mort Police Department. I finished out my career there, spending my last fifteen years as a homicide detective.” He sighed. “Jenny once told her mom you reminded her of me. She said you’re strong of mind, body, and spirit, that you’re a caring guy but unmoved by the stresses of the job. She said you’ve endured things that would destroy even the strongest man, send him over the edge.” He scrubbed some tears from his eyes. “Ten hours ago, I was that man—I was you. Now, I find myself standing on the edge, and the bottom is looking more and more inviting.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I spoke the truth—that I wasn’t as strong as Jennifer gave me credit for, that I had driven right over the edge and it was only by the grace of God that I’d survived. “The pain will never go away,” I said, “but you learn to live with it because, after all, we don’t have much of a choice.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We always have a choice.”
I frowned. “No matter what happens here, you’ll punch through to the other side a stronger man. I just know it.”
“You know no such thing. We’re strong for our family. We live for our family. If they’re gone, what’s left to live for?” I didn’t say a word and he took a deep breath after a long moment. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ll answer the rest of your questions. I know you’re trying to find out why my son attacked his sister and killed his family, and I’m as anxious as you are to find out the answer.”
CHAPTER 15
I had spent two hours interviewing Chuck Duval, but I was no closer to determining why his son would murder his entire family and smash in the skull of his only sibling. When I had explain
ed to Chuck that our findings were preliminary, he had only shaken his head and told me he’d had that same conversation with too many families to count.
“No one wants to believe their loved ones are capable of murder or suicide, but I’ve done the job too long to be surprised anymore and I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I’ve had parents swear up and down their kids didn’t do what I’d accused them of doing—that they knew them too well—only to have them fall out in shock when they later heard the confessions played in court,” he’d explained solemnly. “I don’t want to believe this about my only son, but the sad truth is I don’t really know and I have to trust the evidence. Admittedly, I’ve lost touch with Carl—if I ever had it in the first place—and I don’t know what’s been going on in his life. I’m no fool. I know things can happen that’ll push any good man over the edge.” He had sighed and rubbed his face with both hands before looking at me again. “But this is so bad…so very bad.”
Now, long after the conversation was over, his words lingered heavy as I walked toward the emergency room exit. Not what he’d said about Carl, but the advice he’d offered about not putting my job before my family. He was right and I was scared to death that I might inadvertently do the same thing. It was easy for me to get so wrapped up in an investigation that I’d neglect other areas of my life. I’d done it hundreds of time. Hell, if I had been in the middle of a murder investigation the night Grace was born, I couldn’t honestly say that I would’ve dropped what I was doing to be by Susan’s side—and that was a problem. It troubled me and I knew that mindset needed to change if I was going to have both, a great family life and a rewarding career.
“I’m going to write that information on my mirror,” I said out loud as I slipped through the sliding doors and out into the cool sunshine, “where I can see it every morning before I leave for—”