by BJ Bourg
“He’s busy,” I said.
“What about Amy?”
Amy Cooke worked nights with William Tucker. I’d hired her a few months earlier to fill a vacancy on the night shift. She was working for the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office and had recently graduated from the police academy when I first met her at Cig’s early one morning. I was heading to the office and she was just getting off the night shift at the detention center. She expressed an interest in working patrol and I needed a hand, so we sealed the deal on the spot with a cup of coffee. Two weeks later she was roaming the streets of Mechant Loup with William and making one hell of a name for herself in the ticket department.
“No, I’ll handle it,” I said. “Have Susan meet me at the scene when she’s done.”
I started to hang up, but Lindsey called my name. I put the phone back to my ear and asked her if there was more.
She hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Will Susan be okay?”
“I sure hope so.”
“Is it true she could go to prison for murder?”
I sighed as I stared blankly at the highway in front of me. I wanted to tell her there was no way in hell that could happen, wanted to reassure her everything would be fine and Susan would be completely exonerated, but even I didn’t believe it. “I don’t know, Lindsey. I really don’t. I guess anything can happen in this day and age.”
As I continued heading south, I tried calling Chloe, but she didn’t answer. I frowned, tossed my phone on the console just as I drove over the bridge that separated Mechant Loup from the rest of the world. When I’d first landed the job here, I didn’t know how I felt about living in a town located at the southernmost tip of a rural parish with only one road in or out. I also didn’t like having to cross a single bridge to get there. While I started to grow used to the idea, I often wondered what would happen if the bridge broke.
CHAPTER 8
The mail carrier was not very happy when I pulled onto the shoulder of the road near East Coconut Lane and approached her Jeep. “Well, it’s about time you get here,” she said. “Thanks to you, I’m an hour behind schedule.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” I stuck out my hand and she shook it. She was tall and on the heavy side, but she carried her weight well and her grip was strong. Her dirty blonde hair was wavy and fell across her shoulders, nearly long enough to cover the postal service emblem on her light blue uniform shirt. She wasn’t wearing a name badge, so I asked her name.
“Sandra Voison.” She crushed out the cigarette she’d been smoking on the bumper of her Jeep and tossed it to the ground. I thought about warning her not to litter, but decided against it when I saw the hard lines on her face. It looked like she’d been through enough already.
“So, you’ve been here about an hour?” I asked.
Nodding her head, she turned away from me and walked to the back of her Jeep. I followed and watched as she opened the back door and grabbed a large box filled with mail. It looked heavy, but she lifted it with ease. I hurried forward and reached for it. “I’ll get that for you.”
She stopped in midair and turned slowly to face me, her eyes squinting. She was only inches away and I could smell spearmint-covered cigarette smoke on her breath when she asked, “Get this for me? Why? You don’t think I can handle it?”
I stared at her. “No, I just thought it’d be nice to offer. I mean, I realize you probably do this all day, every day, and I know you’re capable, but I figured it might be nice to have a break.”
She studied my face with her green eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and it caused her face to light up a bit. “And here I was thinking chivalry had died a slow, painful death many years ago.”
“I guess it’s still here,” I mumbled, not real sure what to say or do next. She finally stepped back and allowed me to grab the box. “Where do you want it?” I asked.
She led me to the passenger’s side of the Jeep and opened the door. After removing an empty mail box, she pointed to the wooden platform. “Put it right there.”
I did as she instructed and then followed her back to the rear of the Jeep, where she tossed the empty box and slammed the door shut.
“Thank you,” she said. “No one’s ever offered to do that for me.”
I shrugged it off and asked her what she witnessed.
“I didn’t witness anything. I just saw what looked like a body on the ground by some steps down the street.”
I looked in the direction she pointed. The left side of the street was lined with trailers and on the right side there was nothing but trees. “Are you sure it was a body?”
“No—and I wasn’t getting close to find out.”
I smiled my understanding. “Which house was it?”
“417. The last trailer on the left.”
“Do you know who lives there?”
She grunted. “I know where everyone lives. That trailer belongs to Betty and Peter Ledet. They’ve lived there a long time.”
“You know where everyone lives, do you?” I asked.
“I sure do.”
“Where do I live?” I challenged.
“326 Jezebel Drive. You have a black German shepherd and you need to cut your grass.”
I whistled, thoroughly impressed. “Damn, you’re good.”
“I know.” She turned back to her Jeep and slid into the driver’s seat. “Is there anything else? I mean, I’d love to sit and chat all day, but someone’s got to deliver this mail.”
“Just give me your number in case I need anything further.” Once I had Sandra Voison’s information, I drove to the last trailer on the left and stopped in the middle of the street. Even from that distance I could see what looked like a body on the ground in front of the trailer, but I couldn’t be positive it was a real human. I called Lindsey on my police radio to let her know I was there and pushed my door open.
After grabbing a set of gloves from the console, I picked my way along the driveway. I was still fifteen feet from the trailer when I realized this wasn’t a drill—it was the real deal. I moved closer and stopped when I was standing over the body. It was a white female and she was lying face down at the foot of the steps. It looked like she had been standing on the steps and just crumbled to the ground in a lifeless heap. There was a lot of blood in the dirt around her body, so I wasn’t expecting much when I felt for her pulse. As I figured, there was none.
What used to be a white T-shirt was now reddish brown in most places. Something protruded from her back under the shirt. It pushed the fabric of her shirt up like a short tent pole. The tip of a knife, perhaps? It was right over the back of her heart. I bent over and reached for her shirt when I heard a creaking sound coming from the interior of the trailer. Pausing where I was, I listened with my mouth open to better hear movements from inside.
After several long seconds, there was no other sound. What if it was just one of those natural Louisiana marsh sounds, like the creaking of two giant tree limbs rubbing against one another in the wind, or an alligator rustling in the bushes behind the trailer? Maybe it was the wind pushing against the trailer. It did seem rather old, and a little wind could be enough to make it shift on its foundation.
When I didn’t hear the sound again, I shrugged and turned back to the body. Just as I reached for the woman’s shirt again, I heard a loud and distinct bumping sound.
I whirled around to face the trailer and jerked my Glock from its holster. Dropping to my knees beside the concrete steps, I pointed the muzzle of my pistol at the front door. The bumping sound came again and I wondered if this was a murder scene and if the killer was still inside. Knowing I was exposed to the windows above me, I scurried under the trailer and held my breath, listening for the slightest sound above me.
CHAPTER 9
Except for a couple of spots, I had a good view of all sides of the trailer from where I huddled. Tall grass lined the entire back of the trailer, but if someone tried to escape through the back door I’d be able to s
ee them. Trying not to make any sounds that would give away my position, I eased my radio from my belt and spoke softly into it, asking Lindsey if Susan was finished with the prisoner. Before she could answer, Susan’s voice came over the speaker.
“Headed your way. About two minutes out.”
I studied the front yard. A gray four-door truck was parked in the driveway and Susan could use it to cover her approach. I whispered as much into the radio and settled back to wait for her.
I didn’t have to wait long. It took Susan a little more than two minutes to get there, but not by much. She parked her Charger behind the truck and rolled out of the driver’s door. I lost sight of her as she moved around the back of the car. When she reappeared near the front of the truck, I scooted out from under the trailer and pointed to the windows on the left side of the door to let her know I would watch that side. She nodded and sprinted toward my location, staying low and keeping her pistol aimed at the windows to the right.
When she reached the trailer, we each moved to opposite sides of the concrete steps, and I leaned closer and mouthed, “I heard something from inside. It could be the killer.”
Susan nodded to let me know she understood, but I wasn’t so sure. While she was only several feet from me, she seemed miles away. The muscles in her left arm rippled as she adjusted the twin pigtails that dangled behind her neck. She then returned to a two-handed grip on her pistol and bit her lower lip, as though lost in thought. There were worry lines on her forehead and I realized just then she had to be thinking about the hearing. I frowned. We were about to enter what might be a hostile environment and I couldn’t have her mind on anything but the task at hand.
“You with me?” I asked.
As though I’d interrupted some inner monologue, she turned to me with a blank expression on her face. “What?”
“Are you focused?”
She shook her head to clear it, and then nodded. “I’m ready.”
I reached up and tested the doorknob. It was locked. She pointed to her thigh and then to the door. I nodded and she crept up the steps. When she reached the second to last step, she lifted her right leg. The snug-fitting uniform pants stretched over her muscular figure. I’d seen firsthand how powerful her kicks could be, and I knew the door was no match for her. In a flash, her boot shot toward the area of the door just inside the knob and it crashed inward, disturbing the stillness of the late morning air.
Susan rushed into the trailer and I scrambled up the steps and darted through the door behind her. We found ourselves in a kitchen and living room combination, and quickly hunkered down beside a small bar. We waited, listening. Other than the trickling of splintered wood onto the linoleum floor, all was quiet. I was starting to doubt what I’d heard when footsteps suddenly pounded down the hallway to our left. We sprang to our feet, but not before we heard what sounded like a door being smashed open toward the back of the trailer. Light spilled into the hall and we heard someone grunt as they thudded to the soft ground.
“The back door!” I bolted from my position and raced down the hallway and toward the bright light. Susan had turned to jump out the front door, and she reappeared around the outside corner of the trailer just as I leapt through the back door. There were no steps and I fell for about four feet before landing hard on my heels. I cast a quick glance around. Susan was pointing toward a stretch of trees that lined the back yard.
“He ran that way,” she said, giving chase.
I followed her and we plunged into the trees. Branches whipped at us and stung with each strike. The leaves had been falling for a week, or so, and made it easier to track the half-naked figure that zigzagged ahead of us, trying to dodge trees and picker bushes.
“Police,” I called, unsure if he could even hear me. “Stop or we’ll shoot!”
Susan also began yelling commands as we started to catch up to him. The trees parted suddenly and we found ourselves racing across a small clearing beside a dry canal. The man was now in full view and only several dozen feet ahead of us. I hollered at him again and he skidded to a stop, spun around to face us. There was a large kitchen knife in his hand and I slid on one knee, extending my arms to point my pistol at him. While I was focused on the knife, I couldn’t help but notice he wore nothing but sagging boxers. They could’ve had a print pattern or been a solid color at one time, but now looked like an old door mat that had been rubbed free of any discernible tint. His pale skin appeared chalky and thin and was littered with sores.
“Drop the knife or I’ll shoot,” I ordered.
Susan had fanned out to my right and was approaching him with bad intentions. She’d already holstered her pistol and her hands were extended above her waist as she measured the man in front of her. He looked rough. His face was darker than the rest of his exposed body, but the same types of sores were present. His dark hair was falling out in weird patches and his beard didn’t know if it wanted to be gray or black. He held the knife in his right hand and his left hand was palm out, facing us. Both hands were dry and cracked. Looked painful. His eyes were wild as they shifted rapidly from me to Susan.
“Y’all not J-Rock,” he said.
“No, we’re not.” I motioned toward the ground. “Now put that knife down before she hurts you.”
“Y’all really cops?”
I pointed to the badge pinned on my tan uniform shirt. “As real as it gets.”
He was thoughtful. Finally, after about a minute, his trembling hand opened and the knife dropped to the ground. He crumbled to his knees and fell forward, crying. “Thank God! I thought y’all were here to kill me.”
Susan hurried forward and kicked the knife away. She grabbed him under the arm and jerked him to his bare feet. “Put your hands on your head,” she ordered.
The man did as he was ordered and Susan grimaced as she frisked the lining of his boxers for other weapons. When she was satisfied he was unarmed, she waved for him to put his hands down. I walked to where she had kicked the knife, but had to search in the dry leaves for several moments before finding it. I used two leaves to retrieve it from the ground and turned to Susan. She was questioning the man, who identified himself as Peter Ledet.
“Why’d you run?” she asked.
“I thought y’all were with J-Rock and that y’all came back to finish me off.”
“Who’s J-Rock?”
Peter hesitated and stared down at his cracked and bloody toes.
“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re here now. This J-Rock can’t hurt you.”
“It’s just that…well, J-Rock was Betty’s dealer.”
“Betty’s dealer?” Susan raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”
He shook his head, picking at the sores on his face. “I…I don’t do nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.” Susan stepped closer to him, checking his fingers and pushing up his lip. “You’ve got burn marks on your fingers and lips. Care to tell me how those got there?” Peter just stood there fidgeting, so Susan continued. “I’m betting you don’t have a job and all you do is stay home and get high. But where do you get the money? You can’t keep a job in your condition. Shit, you can’t even dress yourself. I bet you send poor Betty to work to support your habit. Do you make her turn tricks?”
“What do you know about Betty?” Peter stared wide-eyed from me to Susan. “Is she okay? I thought she was dead. Did you talk to her?”
“No, she’s gone.”
“Then how’d you know all that?” he asked.
“I know a lot of things.” Susan folded her arms across her chest. “Now, tell me about this J-Rock.”
Peter slumped forward, which pushed his bony shoulder blades out like twin shark fins. “I’m on probation and I already got three felonies on my record. The judge said if I caught another one he was gonna put me away for a long time.”
When Susan told him we weren’t interested in his petty drug use, Peter seemed to relax a little—as much as any crack-addict could in his situation—and started ta
lking.
“Betty called J-Rock up and asked him to bring some crack over to the house. She owed him money and I guess it made him mad when she couldn’t pay it.”
“Are you saying J-Rock killed her?” Susan asked.
Peter nodded. “I heard his voice. He was the only one at the door.”
As we walked back to the trailer, Susan continued to question Peter, but he couldn’t tell her more than he had already. When she asked why he hadn’t called 9-1-1, he said he didn’t have a phone. She pointed out that Betty was able to call J-Rock, so one of them had a phone. He started to answer, but winced and doubled over in pain when he stepped on a small cypress knee that jutted out of the ground. He held onto a tree while he rubbed the bottom of his foot, explaining Betty had a cell phone, but he hadn’t been able to find it after the murder. Fearing J-Rock was lurking in the darkness and waiting to kill him next, Peter had armed himself with a kitchen knife and hid under a pile of clothes in a closet. Somewhere in the middle of the night he drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up until he heard our voices outside the house. When the front door crashed open from Susan’s kick, he thought it was the end of the line.
We finally reached the trailer and he limped toward the back door.
“You can’t go inside,” I said.
“Why not?”
“It’s a crime scene now.” I nodded to Susan and she led him to her car.
Once Peter was secured in the back seat and the car was running to keep him comfortable, Susan returned with her crime scene kit and set it on the ground away from the body. As she bent to open it, I stepped closer and squatted beside her. “What happened back there?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“When we were about to go into the trailer. You seemed lost.”
She sighed. “I got this sick feeling in my stomach as I wondered...”
I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I asked, “What did you wonder?”
“Before, when I’d face a dangerous situation, I’d wonder if I was going to come out alive. Now, I wonder if I’m going to go to jail for doing my job.”