The Bayou Strangler

by Fred Rosen

  “Would you like to go get some sleep and let’s come back and talk to you tomorrow?” Bergeron offered.

  “I don’t wanna talk no more. I’m tired. I just wanna go to sleep and I don’t want to wake up.”

  Thornton and Bergeron knew they would have to put a suicide watch on him when he reached his cell. A guard would have to watch him constantly.

  “Okay,” Thornton said, “but you’re gonna wake up tomorrow. When’s the last time you slept?”

  Dominique said nothing. Thornton, meanwhile, had been showing his concern by asking the question, but he had no intention of taking Dominique anywhere. They had to get him to open up more. Otherwise, they only had him for the two murders. That meant twenty-one to go.

  “Were you sleeping today when we picked you up?” Bergeron asked.

  “Off and on,” Dominique finally answered. “My chest hurts too much to sleep. I haven’t been sleeping since I had my first heart attack. There’s too much pressure on my chest.”

  Thornton had a hunch.

  “Did that pressure come from all this?” Thornton asked, meaning serial killing.

  “No, I got stung by a wasp and I had a heart attack.”

  “No, I mean other than that.”

  They weren’t medical doctors, but a wasp causing a heart attack made as much sense to the detectives as the black pepper story. Unless he was allergic to the venom.

  “You think it was all the stress that built up?” Bergeron asked.

  “No, it just hitted all at once.”

  “Okay, Ronald,” said Thornton.

  “I never had no problems,” Dominique insisted. “I just got stung by the wasp and they found I had a blockage.”

  Thornton realized they needed to keep him focused on the killings.

  “Well, here’s a question for you. We talked about the last four last year and that’s kind of, I don’t mean to be rude here, okay, but that’s kind of a busy year. How did you deal with that?”

  Thornton really wanted to know what made the guy tick.

  “I just kind of blocked it out and I didn’t wanna remember nothing.”

  “What did you do for Hurricane Katrina? Did you stay?” asked Thornton.

  “We went to stay at a friend’s house the first hurricane, the second one we stayed at the trailer.”

  “But you came back eventually, right?”

  “That was the last time.”

  “That was the last time?” Thornton repeated.

  “Yes, sir,” said Dominique.

  “You didn’t do anything since then?”

  “No, ’cause I had my heart attack in September. I haven’t messed with nobody.”

  Ironically, Dominique’s ill health had probably spared someone’s life.

  “Did you try? Maybe try to pick somebody up and it just didn’t work?” Bergeron asked.

  “No,” he answered promptly. Then he said that, after his heart attack, “most of the time my sister would do all the driving.”

  “Your sister?” asked Thornton.

  There it was again: family problems. The detectives had no use for Dominique’s whining. Thornton switched tactics and got more direct.

  “Were you worried when you had them in your truck or your car about being stopped by the police?”

  “Yes.”

  Thornton had finally gotten someplace; Bergeron wasted no time stepping in.

  “Did you ever get stopped with anybody with you? Pulled over for anything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Thornton remembered the preliminary report of the forensic team. Could there be evidence in the trailer they had not yet found?

  “Let me ask you this, Ronald,” said Thornton casually. “In your trailer, in your RV, looking in there, is there anything that ever came off the guys you had there and stayed in there?”

  “No,” Dominique answered firmly.

  “Just maybe they left any articles of clothing or jewelry?” Bergeron asked.

  “No.”

  “Wallets?” asked Thornton.

  “Shoes?” Bergeron wondered out loud, mindful of the old shoeless-killer angle.

  “Shoes, identification, anything like that?” Thornton repeated.

  “No.”

  Dominique was adamant; he was a different kind of serial killer, one who didn’t keep souvenirs of the people he killed. Or so he claimed. A detailed search of his trailer might prove otherwise.

  “Everything was thrown away,” Dominique claimed.

  If he had thrown away everything, including bindings and victims’ clothing, there would be a distinct lack of physical evidence with which to further build their case. While he had already given a partial confession, there were many cases on record where an appeals court threw out a confession for lack of physical evidence to back it up.

  “Everything—like what do you mean by that?” Bergeron cut in. “You said earlier that you threw some clothes away. What other types of items did you throw away? Jewelry?”

  “Whatever they had.”

  “How about a driver’s license? You ever thrown away a driver’s license?” Thornton asked.

  “Everything they had.”

  “Book sacks?” Bergeron said.

  “Nobody brought a book sack.”

  It was true. The victims weren’t honor students.

  “Backpacks or anything like that? CD players?” Bergeron went on.

  Some of the victims had had those items with them prior to their murders. Finding them in Dominique’s trailer would link him conclusively to those murders. They needed strong, direct physical evidence.

  Remembering the mode of transportation of many of the victims, Thornton leaned forward.

  “What about a bicycle? You ever throw a bicycle away? Maybe once?”

  “Maybe once or twice.”

  “Maybe once or twice,” Thornton repeated, the words sounding pleasant to his ear. “Okay, let’s say you’re riding and there’s a guy comes up to you on a bike and he wants to be with you. He don’t leave his bike, right?”

  “No.”

  “Can he put the bike in the back of your truck?” asked Thornton.

  “I don’t remember where I threw the bike.”

  “How many bikes did you get rid of?” asked Bergeron.

  “Two.”

  Bergeron continued this line of questioning. “Where’d you throw the bikes, if you remember?”

  “I think one of the bikes, the guy who I put in the mini-storage.”

  More specific information! Thornton grabbed for it.

  “Okay, well, let’s talk about the mini-storage. The guy you put in the mini-storage, he had a bike?” said Thornton.

  “I think so.”

  “Where’d you put his bike?”

  “I don’t remember. I just remember throwing the bikes away someplace. You don’t just drive down the street and toss it out.”

  That would attract attention. He had to find an isolated place to get rid of it instead.

  “Did you go down a ways, and dump them in cane fields or the bayou?” said Bergeron.

  “I think one of the bikes … the guy that I put in the mini-storage,” Dominique answered.

  He had thrown Michael Barnett’s body in the storage unit.

  “Who else had a bike?” Bergeron prodded. “Try to remember.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Yes, you do, Thornton thought.

  “Do you remember a guy outside the mini-storage?”

  “No.”

  “Like you could see the mini-storage?”

  He was trying a visualization exercise with the serial killer. By using verbal clues, he was trying to re-create the scene.

  “By the church, a little white church?” Bergeron aske
d.

  “He was outside,” Thornton added.

  “If you pass the mini-storage and the pizza place, there’s—”

  “No,” Dominique interrupted.

  “—church on your right.”

  “I don’t remember, I don’t …”

  His voice trailed off, but Thornton wasn’t going to lose him.

  “What about Kraemer?” referring to another victim picked up there.

  “You remember that,” added Bergeron.

  Dominique sat there in his self-imposed silence. It was impossible to guess what was going on inside the serial killer’s head. However, Bergeron and Thornton had him on a confessional roll. If they lost him now, they might not find him as cooperative again. Both detectives knew this.

  “You remember, don’t you?” Thornton nudged.

  That brought no reply, so Bergeron switched tactics and tried the softer approach.

  “What do you remember, Ronald? Tell us about it.”

  Thornton knew the use of Dominique’s first name at that critical juncture would get him to open up. Maybe.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Clearing All Twenty-Three

  “It’s the same as the rest,” Dominique finally answered.

  Inwardly, Thornton breathed a sigh of relief. Bergeron bore in.

  “How many?”

  “One.”

  “What happened there?”

  Dominique didn’t remember the pickup, but he did remember dumping the body.

  “On the side of the road by a fence.”

  “Black or white guy?” Bergeron asked.

  “Black.”

  “You remember where you picked him up?”

  “I don’t wanna see no more pictures,” Dominique whined.

  “Just one more?”

  “No.”

  “You said he was by a fence,” Bergeron said. “Did you dump him on the left or right of it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You do think you picked him up in Houma though, Ronald?”

  “Yes.”

  That established the jurisdiction for the case. Since the crime itself began in Houma, Terrebonne Parish had venue.

  “You remember the person by the fence?”

  Thornton was talking about victim Michael Vincent, whose body was found draped over the barbed wire fence.

  “I don’t remember, I’m serious.”

  “Did you go anywhere else other than in your truck, or to the camper? A friend’s house?” Bergeron asked.

  “No.”

  “How many times you use handcuffs, Ronald?” she asked. “You ever use handcuffs?” Some killers could get very kinky.

  “No.”

  “Did any of them wanna be handcuffed?” Thornton asked.

  “I don’t remember the faces.”

  “Okay, that’s fair enough,” Thornton said. “I understand if you don’t remember the faces.”

  After all, twenty-three faces would be hard to remember.

  “I told you all I remember is that I don’t remember anything else. I don’t!”

  “Was there sex involved?” Bergeron asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, was there tying of the wrist? Of the feet?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay, I don’t wanna put words in your mouth. You gotta fill in here. Tell me about the scene,” she continued, mindful of the tape, the Constitution, and the opportunity to clear Vincent’s homicide right here and now.

  “I don’t remember where.”

  “Were you in the RV or were you in the truck?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t.”

  Both Thornton and Bergeron could see Dominique was tired and turning uncooperative. They stopped the tape and stepped into the hall to determine if they should continue questioning him now or take him to his cell for some sleep and resume tomorrow. They needed to talk to him a little more off tape to help them decide.

  The tape recorder went back on at 11:22 p.m. After a few of the usual formal preliminaries when a taped statement starts—stating the suspect’s name, birth date, and names of the officers taking his statement—Thornton got down to brass tacks.

  “Okay, Ronald, we’d like to ask you about one more incident where you indicated that in Lafourche Parish on LA 7, you remember placing a black male subject near a fence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that correct?” Thornton repeated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, just tell us a little bit more. What do you remember about that incident?”

  “We fooled around like the rest of them. Then he was gonna call the police and then after I strangled him, I dropped him off,” Dominique answered, as nonchalantly as if he were taking out the trash.

  “Let’s talk about this. When you say ‘fool around,’ once again, we’re talking about what? And in what vehicle was this?” Thornton asked.

  “I don’t remember where it was, or what was done in it.”

  “Were you using your truck at the time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The black Sonoma. Dominique had now identified it as the vehicle he used to pick up his victims.

  “This picture is labeled ‘twenty,’” said Bergeron, handing him a picture of Wayne Smith, victim number twenty.

  Dominique looked down at it with no emotion.

  “Tell us about the person in this picture,” she continued.

  “Yes, I met him. I was living at my sister’s house at the time.”

  “So you met this person, which has been identified as Wayne Smith. When did you meet him?”

  “He flagged me down when I was passing. He was riding a bicycle.”

  “Where at?” Thornton asked.

  “On the east side of Houma. I was in my black Sonoma.”

  So much for a mysterious white van.

  “Okay, what happens?”

  “He asked me if I was looking for drugs and I told him no. He asked me if I fool around and I told him yes. He said he does too. He went to drop off his bike. He told me to wait while he did that.”

  “Did he get in your truck when he came back?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “The Dixie Shipyard, to my RV. It was my brother-in-law’s, but he gave it to me.”

  He explained how his brother-in-law had gotten him access to the deserted shipyard. After he and Smith went inside his trailer, they got undressed.

  “Did y’all have a discussion about what was gonna happen?” Bergeron continued.

  “Yeah, I told him that I don’t take it in the rectum and I was scared I would get raped.”

  “So what kind of arrangements were made?”

  “I tied his hands, so he couldn’t rape me. We’re laying on the ground on the floor and give each other head. Then he goes on his stomach and tells me to put it in. And he starts saying he liked it. Then after we finish, he told me I had to pay him or he was gonna call the cops. I panicked and got nervous ’cause I don’t wanna go to jail. So I started choking him.”

  “How’d you do that?” Thornton asked.

  “With an extension cord. I stopped when I noticed he wasn’t breathing. I tied him up and put him in my truck. I put his clothes back on too.”

  “So you put him in the GMC Sonoma?” Bergeron continued.

  Dominique quickly answered yes. “I dropped him in a ditch on the side of the road.”

  Despite his lethargy, they had just gotten Dominique to confess to another murder. Thornton kept the pressure on.

  “Okay, Ronald, we’re going to move on just a little bit,” said Thornton, “to another one.”

  Bergeron held
up a mug shot of Michael Barnett.

  “This is picture number fifteen. Where’d you meet him?”

  “By the Mobil station on 182 in Houma next to the Sugar Bowl Motel.”

  The detectives glanced at each other. They had been right about the pickup site.

  “I came out the store,” Dominique continued, “and he approached me and said he needed to make some money to pay his boardinghouse. I told him all I had was twenty dollars. He said anything would help and I asked him what he was into. He said, ‘Fooling around with guys.’ So I brought him to the RV.”

  From there, it was business as usual, tying him up in preparation for sex and death.

  “We sucked each other. Then he tells me I could put it in and after I do, he wants more money. I told him that was all I had. He said he would go to the police if I didn’t give him more.”

  With his hands tied, it was easy for him to choke Michael Barnett to death. Once again, a body was placed in the back of the Sonoma and Dominique drove around, looking for a dump site. He drove by the pizza place and saw the storage units located nearby.

  “What gave you the idea to put him there?” Thornton asked.

  “I don’t know, I was just scared. I just saw it.”

  It was convenient; an improvisation. Dominique was good at improvising, though this wasn’t Second City. It was murder.

  “I put him in, closed the door, got in my truck, and threw his clothes out the window. Don’t remember where.”

  “Now, Ronald, we’re going to move on to another face,” Thornton said.

  He showed Dominique a picture of Leon Lirette. It was the same story. Dominique claimed he waved Lirette down and asked him if he wanted to make a few dollars. Lirette did.

  “What happened next?” asked Bergeron.

  “We talked for a while and I told him I was getting kind of scared ’cause I got raped in prison. He started rubbing my shoulder, telling me everything was going to be alright. Then he got in the truck and we went to the RV. He was already almost half-dressed, ’cause he had his pants hanging off his butt and he just started undressing.”

  “Did you tie him up?” Bergeron asked, knowing the answer.

  “These guys, all they want is money,” Dominique said in frustration.

  “The RV, where was it parked?” Thornton asked.

  “At the shipyard.”

  They needed more specific information, the kind that would be included in Dominique’s murder indictments.