by BJ Bourg
The phone rang for the fifth time since I’d been sitting there, and Lindsey looked at the display screen. “More calls from the media. What do I tell them?”
“Tell them I don’t comment on active investigations.” I turned my attention back to the case, mulled over what we knew so far. A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Where’s the closest place we can buy arrows? Do we have any in the parish?”
Melvin thoughtfully rubbed his bare dome. “There’s a hardware store in northern Chateau that sells archery equipment,” he finally said. “I can check it out if you like.”
“Do that,” I agreed. “Bring a picture of the arrows we removed from the bodies. If they sell the same kind, find out when they sold some last and who purchased them.”
As Melvin gathered up his things, the door burst open behind us and William stuck his head inside. “The news vans are gone,” he said in a hurried voice. “They’re nowhere to be seen.”
CHAPTER 23
“Gone? What do you mean?” I asked, rising from my chair.
William shrugged. “When I opened the garage door I expected to have to tell everyone to get back, but they were all gone. No reporters, no vans, no nothing.”
Susan and I followed William through the processing area, the sally port, and out onto the sidewalk, where the sun was shining bright. I looked up and down Main Street. Other than a warm breeze rustling the leaves on the trees that lined the street, there was no movement. What had once been a circus of reporters was now a ghost town. “What the hell? Where’d everyone go?” I thought about calling Chloe, but every time she refused my call I cringed a little inside.
“This is some Walking Dead-type shit,” William said.
Melvin joined us on the sidewalk. He was carrying a manila folder and his car keys. “This is weird. Why would they just pack up and leave? You think they finally realized you won’t give a statement?”
A sinking feeling started to settle in the pit of my stomach. Susan studied my expression, asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I nodded and hurried into the office. “Lindsey, switch to the sheriff’s office channel to see if anything’s going on.”
She did and we listened for a few minutes, but radio traffic was low. The phone rang and Lindsey picked it up without looking. “Mechant Loup Police Department,” she began. “How may I help you?”
My fears were confirmed when I heard her voice grow excited. “Sure, he’s right here.” She turned and pushed the phone in my direction. “It’s Sheriff Buck Turner. He needs to talk to you right away—it’s an emergency.”
Buck Turner was the recently-elected sheriff of Chateau Parish. After working cows his entire life, and with no political experience to his credit, he’d decided to run for the top law enforcement job in the parish. There had been a lot of mudslinging and accusations between him and his opponent during the campaign, but Buck had done what no one else had been able to do in sixteen years—unseat the most popular sheriff in Louisiana.
Buck had been in office for three months and I’d only met him on one occasion, but he seemed nice enough. During our one conversation, he expressed an interest in working closely with me and the other police chiefs who served the incorporated towns in the parish, and he promised to offer whatever assistance we needed. I wasn’t positive why he was calling, but I was betting it was to ask for my assistance.
Buck didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Instead, he said, “Chief, we’ve got a major problem…there’s been another arrow attack and I’m sure it’s related to your case.”
Although he couldn’t see me, I nodded. “I was afraid of that. The news reporters disappeared from around here like we had Ebola, so I figured something must’ve happened somewhere outside of town.”
“Yeah, the attack took place at The Keeper’s Cemetery in the central part of the parish, about fifteen miles from the town limits.”
“You got anybody on the scene?”
“Yeah,” Buck said. “I’m here, myself, along with my best detective and five of my patrol deputies. I have to say, Clint, it ain’t good. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take the lead on the case since two of the attacks happened in your jurisdiction and you know more about it than any of us.” Buck paused, then said, “My deputies will be assisting you with whatever you need.”
“Okay, thanks. Susan and I will be right there. What’s the address?”
He gave me the address, and then said in a slow voice, “This attack…it’s not like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“Telling you wouldn’t do it justice. I…I think you need to see it to believe it. We’re definitely dealing with a crazy son of a bitch.”
Susan and I jumped in my Tahoe and hurried to the cemetery. When we arrived, we saw a crowded mess of news reporters standing by the road, their cameras trained toward the tombs. Three deputies clad in dark blue polyester uniforms stood in front of them with arms crossed, keeping them at bay. I parked the Tahoe and Susan led the way through the reporters. When they noticed who we were, the reporters started bombarding us with questions. I recognized Chloe’s voice and my heart stopped in its place. I turned and scanned the crowd as I walked, spotted her short frame off to the side.
“Chief,” Chloe hollered, “is this case connected to the murders in Mechant Loup?”
Our eyes met, but hers seemed distant. I frowned and turned away. When Susan and I reached the crime scene tape, we nodded to the deputies and ducked under it. I immediately spotted Sheriff Buck Turner a hundred yards away standing in front of a mausoleum. Of course, he was hard to miss. His worn leather boots and large Stetson made his six-foot-three, two-hundred-forty-pound frame seem larger than it was. Combined with the single-action 1875 Outlaw Colt .45 revolver that hung low in a leather holster on his hip, it looked like he’d just stepped out of a Louis L’Amour novel. He was flanked by two of his patrol deputies and they were talking to a detective I’d never seen before.
Susan and I walked up and we shook hands with the sheriff and his deputies. “Thanks for coming out, Clint,” Turner said, rubbing a thick hand over his weathered face. “I know I ain’t been at this job long, but this has got to be the weirdest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”
I scanned the face of the undisturbed mausoleum, furrowed my brow. When he saw the puzzled look on my face, Turner waved for us to follow him. “It’s back here,” he said, “on the northern side.”
Susan and I followed him along the clean sidewalk and we both gasped when we rounded the corner.
“You don’t see that every day,” Susan said, nodding for emphasis.
I had to blink several times to be sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. The granite crypt front of one of the coffin slots had been destroyed and the wooden coffin had been dragged from its resting place and left leaning against the mausoleum at an approximate forty-five degree angle. The door of the coffin had been pried open, but I couldn’t see inside because the back of the smashed door was propped up on my side, obstructing my view. “Is there a body inside?” I asked.
Turner only stepped back to get out of my way. I slowly walked around him to the foot of the coffin and caught sight of a pair of legs, confirming my suspicions. More of the body came into view as I moved to a better vantage point and I nearly choked on my tongue when I saw what all the fuss was really about…a red arrow was buried deep in the corpse’s chest.
CHAPTER 24
“What is it?” Susan asked. My chin must’ve been hanging on my chest, because she rushed forward to stand beside me. She drew to an abrupt halt when she saw the body. “Oh, shit! What the hell is that about?”
Sheriff Turner removed his hat and wiped sweat from the white hair plastered to his scalp. “I told you it was bad,” he said, pushing his hat back in place and adjusting it until it was perfect. “I’ll go keep the media busy while y’all figure out what happened here.”
I nodded, still shocked by the scene. “Who shoots a body th
at’s already dead?” I hadn’t posed the question to anyone in particular, but Susan answered.
“Someone who’s really pissed off. Unless these are random attacks, our suspect is mad as hell at this guy, Betty Ledet, and Isaac Edwards.” She leaned close to inspect the arrow. “What could three people do to piss off one person this much?”
I turned to Sheriff Turner’s detective, who had introduced himself as Doug Cagle, and asked, “Any idea who this poor soul is?”
Cagle shook his head. “Once we realized what we had, the sheriff said to turn everything over to you, so we didn’t touch anything.”
I stepped back and studied the surrounding area. The expansive cemetery was nestled up against a patch of woodlands and was located along a lonely stretch of highway. “Any neighborhoods around here?” I asked.
Cagle pointed to the north. “There’s one about a mile that way, but that’s the closest. I’ll take them”—he shot his thumb at the two deputies—“with me and we’ll canvas the area for you. There’re also a few houses along the highway and we’ll check them out, too.”
I nodded my thanks and Susan and I got to work processing the scene. After we’d documented the scene with photographs and measurements, I studied the broken pieces of granite crypt front that were scattered on the concrete sidewalk, some of which were under the suspended coffin. “We need to figure out this guy’s name.”
Susan dropped to her knees with me and we carefully moved two large pieces and a dozen smaller ones into place like a giant puzzle, and a name emerged. It was Frank Rushing and he was eighty-seven years old when he died four years ago.
Frank Rushing!
“Hey,” Susan began, “isn’t that—”
“It is!” I snatched my phone from my pocket and dialed Chloe’s number. I walked around the side of the mausoleum and looked toward the road, where the reporters were still milling around. I couldn’t see Chloe, but she answered the call on the fourth ring. “Hey, we need to talk—it’s important.”
Chloe sighed. “Clint, we’re both at work, so it’s not a good time to discuss what happened last night. Maybe later, when we’ve both had time to process everything, but—”
“Look, if you don’t want to be with me, that’s fine,” I said. “Life goes on. But this is about work—about this case. I’m going to call one of the deputies and have them escort you over here so we can talk. Make yourself easy to find.” I hung up and called over my police radio, asking one of the deputies near the media staging area to find Chloe Rushing and escort her to my location. One of them responded and I saw movement near the highway.
“Keep her away from the coffin,” Susan said. “If this guy is related to her, she doesn’t need to see him like this.”
I agreed and walked across the cemetery grounds to meet Chloe and the deputy halfway. I thanked the deputy and he returned to his post. Chloe had a puzzled expression on her face. “What is it? Why’d you have me brought here?”
“Does the name Frank Rushing mean anything to you?”
Chloe’s brow furrowed, as she looked past me toward the mausoleum. “He’s my grandfather. Did someone desecrate his grave?”
I pursed my lips. “It’s worse than that.”
She started to step around me, but I took her arm gently in my hand. “I can’t let you go up to the mausoleum, but I can tell you it’s bad.”
“Bad? How bad?”
I hesitated.
“Tell me, Clint. I need to know what’s going on.”
“Someone removed him from his coffin and put an arrow through his chest.”
Chloe threw a hand over her mouth and collapsed to her knees, tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh, God, no!”
I dropped to my knees beside her and held her, allowing her to cry against my chest. “It’s okay,” I soothed. “I’m going to find out who did this to him.”
After about five minutes, Chloe pulled away from me and I helped her to her feet. She wiped her eyes and face with her palms, took several deep breaths. When she was calm enough to speak again, she asked who could do something so horrible.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I’ll need to meet with you and everyone in your family to try and figure out what he has in common with Betty Ledet and Isaac Edwards.”
“The other victims?” she asked.
“Yeah, but keep that to yourself. Don’t give it to your boss or anyone else in the media.”
Chloe stared me right in the eyes. “I won’t…I’m trustworthy.” Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and walked away. “I’ll be in touch,” she called over her shoulder.
When I returned to where Susan was photographing the crypt front, she asked, “How’d she take the news?”
“Not good.”
Susan studied my face. “Is there something going on between you two?”
“What do you mean?” I tried to sound casual, as I approached the coffin and examined the arrow.
“The way she looked at you this morning—it looks like y’all aren’t getting along. Like maybe y’all were having a fight or had broken up.”
I sighed. It was impossible to keep anything from Susan. “She broke up with me.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“I told her I was dependant on alcohol to get some sleep.”
“She broke up with you because of that?” Susan’s voice was incredulous.
“No. She broke up with me because I’ve been lying about it for a year now.”
Susan was quiet for a long moment. “So, what you’re saying is she didn’t know you need alcohol to sleep?”
“No. I mean, I mentioned it to her last year, but I began hiding it from her after a while. I wanted her to think I was better, you know? I didn’t want her thinking I was damaged, or something.”
“I knew you needed alcohol to sleep.”
I nodded.
“But she didn’t?”
“No.”
“Wow, that’s screwed up.”
“What is?”
“You trust me more than you trust your girlfriend.”
I scowled. “It’s different. You don’t nag me about it.”
Susan raised her hands. “I’m not judging you or anything. It just says something about your relationship with her—if you feel you need to hide things.”
It was my turn to be thoughtful, as I stood there studying Susan. She had a point, I knew, but I just didn’t feel like hearing it day in and day out. I said as much and Susan smirked.
“If that helps you sleep at night.”
“No, the only thing that helps me sleep at night is vodka.”
“Did you try sleeping pills?” Susan asked, turning to grab her camera.
“No. Don’t you have to see a shrink to get a script?”
Camera held poised in front of her, Susan smiled. “You’re cute when you’re being stupid.”
My jaw dropped. “What’d you say?”
“Clint, go to a family doctor and tell them you’re having problems sleeping. They’ll write you a script and your days of burying alcohol bottles will be over.” She pointed to the corpse. “Now, can you turn the body over, so I can photograph the arrowhead?”
As I processed the information she’d provided, I grabbed a hold of Frank Rushing’s left shoulder and pushed him onto his opposite side, standing as far at the head of the coffin as I could to allow Susan some room to work. He was surprisingly light and I held him in place with one hand while leaning back out of the way.
“The arrowhead’s the same as the others,” Susan said, snapping a few pictures of the arrowhead and the corpse’s back while I held it in place. “Want me to unscrew the broad-head so we can remove the arrow?”
I nodded. There was no need for an autopsy, so it was up to us to recover the evidence. My thoughts were on Chloe while Susan put down her camera and changed out her latex gloves. If I did find a doctor to prescribe some sleeping pills, would that change things between us? Would she then give me a second chance
? Sure, I’d eventually be fine if she didn’t take me back, but things were comfortable between us and I wasn’t ready for it to end yet—if ever.
I caught a whiff of a sweet fragrance as Susan moved next to me once again and reached for the arrowhead. She grasped it with the tips of her fingers and began to gently unscrew it, but the whole arrow turned. I reached up with my free hand and held the arrow in place while she removed the arrowhead. Once it was free, she packaged it into a small evidence box and sealed it shut.
I allowed the body to rock back into place and held it there as Susan prepared to remove the arrow from its chest. She gripped the arrow with both hands and planted her knee against the coffin. She gave me a nod and then jerked on the arrow, but it offered little resistance and she was able to easily pull it out. We didn’t have evidence boxes for arrows, so she secured it in a box designed for long guns.
We made one last sweep of the area to make sure we hadn’t missed anything, and then relinquished the scene to the funeral director.
CHAPTER 25
I didn’t see Chloe in the crowd of reporters as we drove away, so I tried calling her to find out if she’d spoken with her family. She didn’t answer.
Susan was on the phone with Detective Cagle and she pointed toward the north when we reached the highway. “Go left,” she said. “Cagle’s got something.”
Although it was cloudy, it was still hot and the Tahoe felt like an oven. Sweat gathered on my forehead and I slid my window down to let in some air until the air conditioner could cool us off. I drove for about a mile until I saw an unmarked detective car parked on the shoulder of the road. I pulled beside it, waited for Cagle’s window to slide down.
“Does a green Thunderbird mean anything to you?” he asked.
Had I been Achilles, my ears would’ve perked up. “Yeah, it was seen at the scene of the last murder.”
Cagle flipped through his notepad, read over what he’d written. “Two different people drove by the cemetery yesterday at about noon and saw a green car parked beside the road,” he said. “One of them described the car as an old green Thunderbird and the other person just said it was a faded green sports car.”