by S. L. Hebert
Finally, I’m about to pull the key out of my pocket when Grasso inadvertently stands to the side of me and inserts his key. I don’t even have to look up to see the smug shit-eating grin on his face as he unlocks the door. To add a little salt to the wound, he extends his arm as a motion for me to enter first. Not saying a word, I walk right past him and place the box on the desk by the window. Before I turn around, I slowly inhale and try to focus on the task at hand.
Making sure my nerves are calm, I slowly turn around. My eyes immediately connect with Grasso’s, as he’s now standing right behind me, holding out the rusted screwdriver. For a split second, I allow myself to get lost in his blue eyes while he patiently waits for me to accept it.
Feeling the need to break the ice and our eye contact, I take the dingy tool from him and hesitantly say, “Let’s hope this works.”
Plain-faced, he continues to remain mute. Feeling uneasy, I quickly do an about face. Trying to hold my hands steady from shaking, I gently attempt to put the end of the flathead into the key hole. For a moment I’m afraid it’s going to be a waste of time, then the metal on the lock gives way and it basically falls apart. It appears to be completely rusted away on the inside. A rush of happiness surges through me, followed by a slither of dread, afraid of what we may find inside.
I habitually look over to Grasso, who’s moving right alongside me. It’s as if I’m waiting for his approval to open it. Jesus, suddenly, I feel like a scared child. Shit! This is not good. I need to keep it together.
Unemotional, he asks, “Would you like for me to open it for you?”
“Umm, no, I need to do this. Can you grab us each a pair of gloves, in case we need to send it off to the crime lab? I don’t want to contaminate the evidence any more than we already have.”
“Yeah, I’ll get them. Why don’t you pull up a chair and take a seat?”
I do as I’m told and pull the wooden chair out from the desk, obediently taking a seat, thinking how if this is a clue to any of the other murders, my legs may give out from underneath me.
Taking this moment, I try to convince myself this is no different than any other murder case, except it is. John Broussard’s a serial killer, and to top it off, he’s my first serial killer case. The pressure’s overwhelming and thrilling all at the same time.
It only takes Grasso a few seconds to be back by my side, handing me a pair of latex gloves. I calmly thank him and slide the gloves on my hands, the same way I’ve done a thousand times before.
Momentarily closing my eyes for a brief pause, I send up a prayer to God in hopes that this box holds all the answers. I then open my eyes and lift the lid, not giving myself any time to back out. The first thing my eyes spot is a small, withered burlap sack, with a rope-type drawstring. Instantly, I assume it’s been handmade. I’ve never seen one like it before to insinuate otherwise. I can feel the bile in my throat start to rise in to the back of my mouth, knowing it’s John’s. One of his trademarks, or as some would say, “His calling card.”
Unable to move, I feel Grasso’s hand gently land on my shoulder in a sign of support. Soothingly, he asks, “Are you sure about this, Logan?”
Not lingering on my doubts or answering his question, I spontaneously pull the drawstring at the edges, opening the bag. I then lift it out of the box and empty the contents onto the desk. As I sit staring at it all, I don’t even feel the wet tears streaming down my face. I’m numb from disbelief. What type of person could take one person’s life, let alone numerous lives?
Flashes of memories start ripping through my head as I faintly hear Grasso speaking.
“Logan, I can do this. Let me help.”
I sit frozen as he doesn’t wait for me to answer. Carefully, he takes each I.D. or driver’s license, lining them up neatly in two rows of four.
When he’s done, I start to count in a voice so low, it’s barely a whisper, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…”
The reality starts setting in, along with anger, as I blurt out, “Oh, my god. That sick son of a bitch! There’s so many of them. How could he get away with killing eight people? No one figured out there was anything going on; no connection, nothing.”
“There’s more, Logan. Look.”
I watch with my eyes fixed on the box as he pulls out two strips of paper, laying them on the desk. They appear to be two Bible verses. I make a mental note to research them, but I’m rather certain they’re from the Old Testament. I proceed to read each one out loud.
“If a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the men who slept with her and the woman must die. Deuteronomy 22:22. Honor your father and mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you. Exodus 20:12.”
Once I’ve finished reading the two passages, I try to wrap my head around how sadistic and confused John truly was and is.
Before I can say anything, Grasso calmly says, “Logan, I’ve been trying to tell you my half-brother’s sick. Look at the papers; they’re old and faded with a brownish yellow color, making them barely legible. I dare say he’s been doing this for a while, and the killings were probably spread out over time.”
“But they’re all from Louisiana.”
“Yes, but back in the day, we didn’t have all the technology we have now. It was harder to send word out when a loved one went missing. They didn’t have computer systems linking every department together, allowing us to share information as easily.”
“Grasso, they’re all males. His latest victims were females.”
“He changed his pattern. You’ve studied up on serial killers and know how this works. I must hand it to him, though; he managed not to screw up for a long time. It was his sister’s death that sent him in a downward spiral. I gathered that much in the house when he was ranting on and on to his mother.”
“That’s true. He wanted to get caught. He said as much in the barn before he was shot; he was planning on all of us dying.”
“I think it’s more like he didn’t care anymore about being caught, Logan. He was out for revenge when he killed the girls back home.”
“That’s right! He told me he was doing God’s will. Always trying to please God, and then God took his sister from him. He looked at it as if God was punishing him for something and turned against him. He thought these people were sinners, just like his and your father. The only question is, where the hell are the bodies?”
Silence fills the air for what seems like forever, probably because we both know what needs to happen next.
“Grasso, we have to get back to Houma. I need to interview John. All these families need closure.”
Without looking at me, he answers, “I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I don’t like it. But you’re right. He holds all the answers, and we are going to have to play the game on his terms. All I ask, Logan, is that I’m able to sit in the room, or even in the hallway, in case you need me. I need you to know, no matter what’s going on between us, I’ll always have your back, no matter what.”
“Thanks, but right now we need to get Det. Jacob Tyler on the phone and let him know we’re heading to the station with new evidence. He’ll need to contact the crime lab here in Franklin, letting them know we stumbled upon crucial evidence, and it’s considered top priority since it was found in their jurisdiction.”
“Right. While I get him on the phone, you need to try and relax.”
I don’t reply to his suggestion. I’m still finding it hard to look away from all the I.D.s lined up on the desk, wishing I could visually see the similarities in the men, but none of them look the same. There’s no specific color of hair or skin, and they vary in ages.
Reluctantly, I bow my head in silence from defeat, knowing all my answers will end up coming from John and the victims’ families. The only upside to finding this is I no longer need John for their identifications. This is a plus one for the good guys. I realize the longer he doesn’t know we have the
hidden box, the better off it is for us.
Tuning in now to what’s going on around me, I can hear Grasso on the phone, and I abruptly cut into his conversation. “Grasso, let Det. Tyler know we need this to stay in-house for as long as possible. Ask him to make sure his techs understand this is on a need to know basis only. We can use this to our advantage against John when we get back to Houma.”
He raises his hand, giving me the thumbs up sign, almost causing me to find a little humor in this whole situation. I quietly retreat to the bathroom, wanting and needing to freshen up. The task is a must after our encounter with a skunk and my decision to climb thirty feet up in a tree.
Swiftly, I undress and step into the shower. I find myself hoping the water will bring some sort of feeling back to my body and wash the numbness away. Checking the water temperature, it’s almost burning hot, but I can still feel a chill deep down in my core. After a few minutes, with the realization that the shower’s not working, I decide to wash up and get out. I quickly dry off and throw on my robe, noticing I forgot to grab myself some clothes. For the first time in what seems like forever, I don’t take the time to look in the mirror and check out my scars.
As I enter the room, I find Grasso seated on the corner of the bed. He appears to have been lost in his own thoughts.
Grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a tee shirt, I off-handedly suggest to Grasso, “You may want to wash up really quick and get some of the skunk smell off you.”
“I will. Det. Tyler said he would meet us at the sheriff’s office in thirty to forty minutes. He was at his house and apparently doesn’t live in the city limits.”
“Care to share what’s on your mind, Michael? I’m all ears if it’s about the case.”
“I think we should leave tomorrow, Logan. On our way back to Houma, we can try to come up with a plan on how to handle John.”
“I’ve thought about that. I’m going to ask him to reveal one of the body’s locations as an act of good faith. It’ll give him a chance to prove that he’s not pulling our chains and leading us on a wild goose chase.”
“Do you think he’ll go along with the idea?”
“He doesn’t have a choice. If he wants to talk with me face to face, he needs to give me something. That’s the object of the game, right? For every victim he uncovers, I’ll tell him something about my childhood.”
“Then simply lie to him, Logan. I mean, how would he know if you’re telling him the truth or not?”
“He always seems to be two steps ahead of us, Grasso. So, anything I tell him will have to at least have a grain of truth to it. At this point, I’m not sure what your brother is capable of, and I want to keep the upper hand.”
As he rises off the bed, he lets out a sigh. “On that note, I’m going see if I can wash some of this worry away. I have a bad feeling about this, Logan. I’m not going to lie to you; none of this sits well with me.”
“There’s not much he can do to me, Grasso. He’s locked up in solitary confinement, and in the interview room he’ll be restrained. We’re just going to talk, with the hopes of getting the information we need. You better just hope I don’t end up killing him in there.”
Without another word, he disappears into the bathroom, leaving me standing there, along with my statement lingering in the air. Maybe there’s nothing left to say on it. Everything we keep hashing out over and over won’t matter one bit. He’s either going to believe me and fess up to where the bodies are, or he won’t; it’s that simple.
Deciding to put it all out of my mind for the time being, I change into my clothes and make my way over to the desk. The I.D.s are still laid out in two rows of four. I find myself studying the dates of birth. The youngest victim was seventeen years of age, and the eldest victim was thirty-six. This makes me wonder if he killed all these victims because they were sinning. What could the seventeen-year-old have done to deserve to die? He should have still been in school, unless he was a dropout.
As I try to concentrate on the I.D.s, I hear the bathroom door open, and out walks Grasso. His quickness in the shower surprises me.
“Damn, that was quick. Did your body even touch the water?”
“I made sure to do it in military fashion, just like in boot camp. You do remember the drill, don’t you?”
“How could I forget? God, that feels like a lifetime ago.”
I watch as he casually struts across the room wearing his jeans, with no shirt on. He looks like a Greek god, with his broad shoulders and chiseled abs. I tell myself to find something else to do besides stare and decide to grab another pair of gloves and put them on. I need to put the evidence back together, so we can get downtown. The sooner we get out of this room, the better.
“Logan, on our way out I think we should stop downstairs and get a sandwich or something quick to eat. We don’t know how long it’ll be before we get another chance to eat something.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s make it quick, though. I want to get this over with. I’m ready to head back home tomorrow and get this shit show on the road.”
As I turn to grab the box, it dawns on me to put it in some sort of bag or something. Not only will it make it easier for me to carry, I can also keep it out of plain sight. Deep in my mind, I know no one will know what’s in it, but I find myself wanting to obscure it anyway.
Looking around the room, I spot a small overnight bag usually used for bathroom products. I proceed to grab it and shake all the contents out on the bed. When I look up, I see Grasso is silently watching me. I ignore him and move to the desk, placing the box safely in the bag.
Finally, after I turn to head towards the door, Grasso asks, “Are you ready now?”
“I think so. You can never be too careful these days.”
“If you say so. Let’s go see what’s left in the kitchen to eat.”
We exit the room and casually walk down the stairs as if we didn’t just open an old rusted metal box with dead victims’ I.D.s in it. I have to hand it to us; we’re playing the whole situation as calm and cool as a cucumber.
Once we step into the hallway along the stairs, I take a moment to notice most of the guests seem to have left the parlor room and dining room. The observation leaves me feeling a little more thankful and relaxed.
As we head towards the kitchen, I hear the soothing sound of a woman’s voice. Instantly, I recognize it as Miss Messana’s.
“Good evening, dear. It’s so good to see you both made it back from the property today. Y’all must be starving. Please allow me to have something made for you to eat for dinner.”
Grasso interrupts before I can manage to respond, saying, “Thanks, but we’re about to head out. We wanted to see if you possibly have some sandwiches or something quick we could grab to eat. We’re attending to an important matter and don’t have time to sit down for dinner tonight.”
In a saddened but understanding voice, she says, “Oh, I see.”
She pauses for a second, then continues. “Well, I’m sure we have sandwiches and some vegetable trays we can lay out for the two of you in the kitchen. Would that better fit your needs?”
The tone in her voice as she asks the question conveys disappointment, and for a second it sounds like we just became one of the other guests staying at the bed and breakfast. Looking over to Grasso, I see he’s picked up on the vibe and quickly answers, “That would be greatly appreciated.”
With a pleasant smile, she goes on to ask, “Would the two of you mind if I take a few minutes to catch up with you while you eat, then?”
I can’t help feeling annoyed as I hear Grasso say, “Sure, we’d like that. But like I said, we’re kind of in a hurry. I’ll explain it to you while we eat.”
“Okay then, dear, right this way.”
Once in the kitchen, I see it’s vacant and the staff has cleared out. Miss Messana goes to the fridge and pulls out two trays, one with finger sandwiches and another with vegetables. She proceeds to place them on the stainless-steel counte
r and asks us if we’d like something to drink. Grasso and I accept and request bottled water. She retrieves two waters from the cooler in the corner and hands them to us.
Instantly, I say, “Thank you, Miss Messana. We really are sorry for wanting something to eat so late. We should have considered the time before we came down here.”
“It’s quit all right, dear. Now, what’s the reason for the hurry tonight?”
With a huge smile on his face, Grasso pipes up, saying, “We discovered something in the woods today, and we need to have the crime scene tech look at it. I wish we could tell you more about it, but it’s classified. I really hope you understand. We really can’t afford to have anything leaked pertaining to the cases.”
Miss Messana’s eyebrow arches as she proceeds, “The cases, hmm…well, that tells me this new information is about more than one murder, but don’t worry, I won’t pry any further. I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it when you’re able to.”
On top of all her other great qualities, Miss Messana is also insightful. She caught on to the last word of Grasso’s sentence as being plural. The only good thing is, she’s most likely figuring it must have something to do with one of John’s present murders, and it’s better for us if she’s thinking along those lines.
While eating, we attempt to make small talk about anything other than work. At one point in the conversation, Grasso informs her we’ll be leaving tomorrow. She tries but unsuccessfully can’t hide the hurt and pain now seeping into her eyes. Grasso immediately notices and makes a noble attempt to try and smooth things over, letting her know we’ll make time to sit and visit with her before we leave.
Finishing up our food, I look at the clock on the wall. We’ve been sitting in the kitchen for almost twenty minutes. I casually nudge Grasso on the leg with my knee as I instantly say, “Look at the time. We really need to be going. Det. Tyler isn’t going to be thrilled if we stroll into the station late again.”
Grasso agrees. “Yes, point taken. Thank you, Abigaila, for the food. We’ll see you in the morning.”