by Graham Smith
You and your organisation are on our watch list. To date we have not had any strong concerns regarding your activity which is why we’re requesting your help. We’re looking for potential or ex members of your organisation whose behaviour, actual or intended, was so extreme you took the sensible step of disassociating yourselves from them.
We urge you to contact us by return at once. Time is of the essence, so if we do not hear from you within twelve hours, we will impound all your electronic communication devices.
Special Agent Devereaux
This is a big step he’s planning to take. One from which there can be no going back. Not only could he be in serious trouble with the FBI, if any of the groups who receive this manage to trace it back to him, his life will be in danger.
I read the letter again, aware he’s stopped typing and has risen from his seat.
He leaves the room as I work through my reactions to this letter. When he returns, he’s got two fresh cups of coffee.
‘I presume you’ve fully thought this through?’ I put concern in my voice rather than a challenge. ‘Once you send that email there’s no recalling it.’
He gives a thin smile. ‘Actually, I can recall emails.’
‘So what do you expect to happen when this gets read? I take it you realise the first thing the recipients will do is delete their files?’
‘Of course they will. That’s what I’m planning on. I’ll be attaching a hidden program to the email. Anything deleted or removed from the devices that open the email will be sent to me. It’ll also send me anything from linked devices. The few who reply will be quicker to deal with than the ones whose deleted files I get.’
‘And what happens if someone traces the email back to you?’
‘They’ll find the IP address belongs to the FBI press office.’ He shrugs. ‘Or the Office of Public Affairs, if you want to give them their proper title.’
I don’t bother grilling him further. He’s on top of the obvious stuff I can think of. If this were a chess game, he’d be working out how to corner my king while I am still moving my first pawn.
‘Have you had any luck on the Deep Web?’
‘Some. It’s tougher to find stuff on there. I had to write a program to search for sites that show recent usage, along with key phrases and words. Once that’s done, I’ll have to examine them to see if they’re relevant to our search. After that it’ll be a case of getting their details and emailing them.’
‘That sounds like a mammoth task. How are you going to deal with all that yourself?’
‘Henry is coming over. It’s better that he’s here. Gives him something to do.’
I know what he means. Henry is Darryl’s brother and the most volatile of Alfonse’s family. There have been one or two occasions in the past when I’ve thought I may have to subdue him.
By enlisting his help, Alfonse will be able to keep an eye on him while also giving him a focus. Henry isn’t a bad guy, he just possesses more energy than he knows how to manage.
I tell Alfonse what little I’ve got, and leave. He needs peace and I need to keep moving.
28
The Augiers’ place is only forty miles from Casperton, but the journey takes me the best part of an hour. The road is narrow, and littered with sharp corners which prevent me from building up a decent head of steam.
I’m quite happy to drive fast on a good road, but only a fool drives round blind corners at speed. The last three miles being nothing more than a gravel track doesn’t help.
Sometimes you can judge people by the kind of home they keep. This is one of those times.
The Augiers live in the kind of place Jed Clampett left when moving to Beverley Hills. It looks as if a violent sneeze could demolish it. Some of the repairs to the timber walls look as if care has been taken, while others look like the hasty efforts of an uncaring oaf.
There’s a shack in a similar state of disrepair off to one side. Around it are a number of trucks, four tractors, and a couple of what I guess are farm implements. None of them look at all modern.
There’s not a lot of farming land around here once you get too far from the river valleys. What little there is will be fraught with hard labour and poor returns.
A door opens and Maisie-Rae steps out with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the late afternoon sun. The scowl on her face when she recognises me shows I’m going to get the welcome I expect.
I’m not surprised by her reaction, it shows a mother’s instincts.
I lift my hands in a surrender gesture. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble. I come with an olive branch.’
She looks puzzled. Her eyes dart to my hands, looking for the branch I’m talking about. Not finding it they flick across the yard towards the shack.
‘Butch. Jim-Bob. Freddie. Get your asses over here.’
I lean against a sun-bleached post and wait for them with my legs crossed at the ankle. Before they get all uppity, I need to show them I’m relaxed – that I’m not here for confrontation.
The door of the shack opens and three denim-clad bodies file out. As they walk across, I realise I’ll have to examine every word before I speak. Butch looks angry, but also curious as to why I’d show up. He has a hand on Jim-Bob’s arm, lest he get yet another silver medal.
It’s not them I’m worried about though. It’s Freddie, the drunk wannabe Lothario from last night, who has my full attention. Or rather the shotgun he carries does.
Even from twenty feet away I can see the redness of his eyes and the shake of his hands. The barrel of the shotgun points at the ground, which is something, but it’s the ground near my feet not his.
I can’t see if his finger is on the trigger and I have no way of knowing if the shotgun is loaded. The only safe option is to presume the answer to both of these questions is yes.
Jim-Bob points at me, and then my Mustang. ‘You got a lotta nerve showing your face here. Get back in your car and beat it ‘fore you get yo’self hurt real bad.’
‘Not so fast.’ Butch tosses a contempt-laden glance at his brother. ‘I want to know why he’s here.’
I keep my gaze steady when returning his. Well, as steady as anyone can when a still-drunk youth with too few live cells is pointing a shotgun at them. ‘I’m helping my friend investigate some murders. Was hoping you guys could answer a few questions, maybe help me identify a killer.’
‘Why’d we want to help you?’ Jim-Bob pushes past Butch and squares up to me. ‘You beat up on us and then come a-crawlin’ ‘specting we’ll help you out. You must be outta your mind, Mister.’
‘Shut up numbnuts. He didn’t beat up on us. If you remember what happened last night, you’ll perhaps recall it was you who started throwing punches around. He defended himself, nothing more, nothing less. You were wasted and picked a fight. When you lost, I stepped in and lost too. He coulda pounded on us a lot more, state we were in, but he didn’t. I’m interested in knowing why.’
‘I ain’t wasted now and neither are you.’
Jim-Bob’s hands curl into fists. He’s too close to me for Freddie to even consider pulling the trigger. It’s the one time I’ve been pleased to be close to him.
‘You heard your brother. Shut. Up.’ Maisie-Rae’s voice is laced with menace. ‘I saw what happened last night. Ain’t no difference if you’re wasted or not; he’ll kick your ass again. Don’t your face hurt enough already?’
Butch fixes me with a stare. ‘Say what you gotta say, Boulder.’
I let out a long sigh, relieved the conversation has got back on track. All the time Jim-Bob has been talking about fighting, young Freddie has been shuffling his feet while raising and lowering the shotgun.
I’m not used to having people aim guns at me. It’s an unnerving experience. Doubly so when the person holding the gun is a hungover halfwit.
I give them the background on the Fournier’s deaths and how I’m helping Alfonse investigate them.
Their reactions are telling. Freddie blanches and
gives a little gag. The brothers remain implacable, bar the faintest trace of revulsion.
Maisie-Rae is the odd one; her face shows nothing but disinterest. ‘You come up here askin’ ‘bout some niggers who got themselves killed. You’re wasting your time, Mister. Ain’t nuthin’ to do with me, nor anyone else up here.’
The scorn and casual racism in her diatribe is lost on Jim-Bob and Freddie. Butch notices it though. He even goes so far as to wince.
‘I’ll deal with this. You get back to work.’ Butch points at the house and the shack.
There are grumbles, but the other three do as he says. Freddie’s offer of the shotgun is refused with a snarl accompanied by a violent push.
He leads me away from the house and we sit on the stump of a felled oak. His eyes hold intelligence and understanding.
It doesn’t take much to imagine him in a better setting, surrounded by people who are his equal. Instead, he’s scratching out a living while looking after his less intelligent family members.
As I watch his face, waiting for him to speak, I can almost see the cogs of his brain turning. He’ll be trying to work out how to neutralise his mother’s racist words, his nephew’s threatening behaviour and whether to tell me anything he may know.
‘She’s from a different time. Doesn’t know words like nigger are no longer deemed acceptable. I’ll be honest, I don’t know any well enough to form an opinion. I keep myself to myself and my family with me.’
I get his meaning. The unspoken words.
He’s living out here for the benefit of his family. With their attitudes and limited intelligence, they’ll end up incarcerated, or dead, if he doesn’t keep them in check.
Trouble attracts people like the Augiers, and Jim-Bob and Freddie are dumb enough to go looking for it on the occasions when it decides to leave them alone. Smarter guys higher up the food chain will rope them into stuff beyond their means and use them as fall guys.
Butch doesn’t let that happen. Keeps them out here, out of the way. Keeps them in a place where they’re no danger to others and therefore not to themselves. Once in a while a marriage to someone from a similar family will dilute the blood or offer an avenue of escape.
The Augiers’ lifestyle is one canoe and a banjo away from being a scene in Deliverance. It’s no wonder they go overboard when they do come into town. With little schooling and even less social skills, there isn’t one of them other than Butch who knows how to treat others with any glimmer of respect.
Compared to his family he’s a prince among men, yet I’m not convinced he’s going to win a Noble Peace Prize anytime soon.
‘These murders. You said they were crucified, then burned. Bad way to go that.’
I nod. ‘Let’s be clear. I’m not accusing you or any of your family. I’m here because you know people I don’t. You may know the kind of people who would commit a crime like this.’ I hold his gaze. ‘Do you know anyone who’d do such a thing?’
His jaw sets as he thinks. I have no idea whether he’s giving my question serious thought, or concocting a lie.
When he speaks his tone is measured. His eyes make contact with mine and don’t keep looking to the left or overdoing the looking at mine.
All of these are signs of lies being told. His voice is without stress. Lying increases stress levels.
The right side of the brain is both the creative side and the one which controls the left side of the body. Liars keep looking to their left when fabricating their stories. When they’re not doing that, they overcompensate eye contact and give themselves away.
‘My mother may use out-dated terms, but we don’t hate those folk enough to kill ‘em.’ He shrugs. ‘I can see why you came here – after all the spouting off when they get drunk. You’re wasting your time though. We sure as hell didn’t do it and I don’t know anyone dumb enough to start killing black folks.’
I press a little harder. ‘You sure? Seems like your brother was in the wars before you all came to the Tree. What happened to him?’
‘I punched him for talking back.’ There’s no guilt or pride or shame on his face or in his tone. He’s just matter of fact. As if hitting your brother is an everyday occurrence which bears no comment. I suppose in his world it is.
We talk for a while and then I leave.
As I drive back, I can’t help but think about Butch and the sacrifice he’s made for his family. He maybe wouldn’t have made Senator if he’d left his family to look after themselves, but he’d have a better life than he does scratching a living out here.
I realise what had struck me as being odd about the Augiers last night. They’d sat at their table, ordered meals and then eaten and drank while talking to each other. Sure, the conversation hadn’t been scintillating but it had been actual conversation rather than a group of people staring at their phones and communicating with strangers via Twitter or Facebook. Maybe they know something I don’t.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen one member of the family carrying or using a cell phone. In today’s world the lack of a cell is a sign of poverty. Still, what use would cells be where they live? Mine had lost its signal halfway from Casperton.
As if by psychic methods, mine starts to beep. I must be back within range of a mast.
I glance at the screen. There are two missed calls from Alfonse and three from Chief Watson.
29
The chief meets me outside the station. He comes out of the door as I’m climbing the four steps into the building. I’m no expert on the subject of body language, but I don’t need to be. His stress-filled scowl tells me everything I need to know.
‘Boulder, with me.’ The order is barked at me as if I’m a new recruit.
I let it slide. He won’t be asking me to accompany him for any other reason than he needs my help or wants to share information with me.
He reaches his truck in six brisk steps. I run around to the passenger side and clamber in as he’s twisting the key with enough force to break it.
His manner suggests either major developments in the case or none at all.
‘You know all that bull your friend was spouting about his cousin and the cousin’s wife being deeply in love?’ It’s a rhetorical question as he doesn’t pause long enough for me to gather my thoughts and formulate an answer. ‘Well let me tell you, bull is exactly what it is.’
My instinct is to defend Alfonse, yet the chief is obviously in possession of information I don’t yet have. A situation that needs to change.
‘Why is it bull, Chief? What do you know that I don’t?’
The Chief realises I’m in the dark and some of his pressure-fuelled anger dissipates. ‘The coroner’s report came in. Darryl Fournier has syphilis and his wife doesn’t. Only one explanation for that.’
I don’t even attempt to answer him. My mind is whirling at this latest development and the questions it has generated.
‘So, where are you taking me, and have you identified who Darryl was sleeping with?’
‘We’re going to the coroner’s office. I want to know more about this disease. Specifically, if it’s an old infection which could have flared up again or if it had been caught recently.’
What he’s saying makes sense. The fact that only Darryl had it speaks volumes.
Never having passed the three months’ stage in a relationship, I have no idea how long a regular sex life carries on. For all I know, happily married couples make love twice a day or once a year. What goes on in other people’s relationships is none of my business. The only person I can ask is Sharon and it’s not an easy thing to discuss with your sister.
I’m tempted to ask Chief Watson but fear it may just tip him from irate to catatonic. Besides, he’s a whole generation older than Darryl and Sherrelle. His is a generation that doesn’t share discussions on their sex life with anyone.
At a guess, I’d say Darryl and Sherrelle would bump uglies once a month at best. Perhaps more if a special occasion or anniversary was marked on the calendar.
If I’m right, Darryl cheated on his wife in the last four weeks. Six at the most. A look at his movements should pinpoint the possible opportunities for indiscretion. Then it’ll be a case of just asking the right questions of the right people.
Identifying the right questions will be the easy part.
The chief interrupts my thoughts. ‘You up to speed yet?’
‘I think so. I’ve no personal experience of syphilis, but I do know that with some strains, once you’ve had it, it’s with you for life and can come back at any time. So I think we have to find out if it has come back or is a new infection. If it proves recent, we’ll have to find out who passed on the disease. For all we know, he could have contracted the disease through some way other than sex and Sherrelle knew all about it.’
His lips purse in thought as he pulls into a parking bay outside the coroner’s office. ‘True.’ He looks at me as he unbuckles his seatbelt. ‘Homicide motives rarely extend beyond sex or money. Follow the dick and the wallet, they’re what leads you to a killer.’
‘I take it you’re guessing their murders are a revenge attack?’
‘What else could it be?’
‘A hate group. Remember how they were killed? That’s not the work of one man. It’s the work of a group.’
I give him time to reconfigure his thoughts. It’s too easy when following an investigation to get swept along by a new discovery. When that happens, key facts get overlooked as the evidence is made to fit the new theory. I was almost swept with him until I started questioning how his news fit with the known facts.
There’s grudging respect in his voice when he speaks. ‘You’re right. It’s still the best lead we’ve got though.’
‘Perhaps. But what about the wife and kids? A vengeful husband or boyfriend wouldn’t have killed them as well. He may have ruined their life by exposing Darryl’s infidelity, but there’s nothing to be gained by killing them. It’s one thing to kill and a totally different thing to enlist help to commit multiple murders.’