by S. L. Hebert
It doesn’t take us long after getting the okay to be out the door and exiting the parking garage. This new turn of events could end up being the break we’ve been looking for. I’d be more enthused about the new development if my instincts weren’t telling me otherwise.
Logan
Sifting through the additional details in my mind, it dawns on me our new victim could very well be the same man I saw the other night while I was waiting on the taxi. Without hesitation, I lay out the scenario for Michael while he drives. The victim’s residence is only about five minutes from the station, give or take. Surprisingly, Michael doesn’t interrupt me; he just listens, all the while keeping his eyes on the road.
Once I’m finished with my assumption, Michael says, “Logan, may I remind you that you were three sheets to the wind the other night? I’m not sure how accurate your sighting was. I received a text from Detective Richard, letting me know there’s no missing person report fitting the description we have of the new victim. Why don’t we just wait until after we talk to Mrs. Thomas before trying to connect the two?”
Feeling a little annoyed that he doubts what I saw, I don’t say a word. I basically ignore him and look out the window until we arrive at the house. The only time I speak to him is when he asks me what the house number is. I’m sure he can tell by the bluntness in my voice that I really have nothing else to say to him.
As we approach the house, I start observing all the cats roaming around. The house itself is lifted off the ground by bricks, made of wood, and painted a light green color. I’m guessing it’s a rental house or a house one of the parties inherited from a parent. That’s usually the case with these older houses; you can tell a lot about a property by the amount of upkeep and remodeling someone puts into it, and this place screams ‘rental house’. From the looks of it, the landlord only does enough upkeep on the place to keep it occupied.
With me and Michael now at the door, I quickly do my police knock: three semi-hard taps; the sound is just enough for whoever’s on the other side to know I’m not the mailman or delivery guy.
Michael glances towards me, saying, “I hope she’s home.”
“She should be. There’s a car in the driveway.”
No sooner than the words are out of my mouth, I hear a female voice saying, “Just a minute.”
After only a few seconds, a lady who appears to be in her early thirties opens the door. Instantly, I say, “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Detective Logan St. Martin, and this is my partner, Detective Michael Grasso. You wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Anna Thomas?”
“Yes, I am.”
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, my partner and I would like to ask you a few questions about your husband, Roy Thomas.”
“Shit! What’s he been arrested for this time?”
“Umm, ma’am, when exactly is the last time you’ve seen or heard from your husband?”
“Two days ago. He left here early that morning, claiming to be going down the bayou to go fishing. Truthfully, I don’t know where he goes once he leaves the house. I work at the school, and usually I’m not home until after three in the afternoon. He’s in-between jobs and has endless time to joy ride all over town.”
“Ma’am, would you happen to have a picture of your husband we can look at?”
“Yes.”
“May we come in and look at it?”
“Sure. Please excuse the mess.”
Promptly, I hear Michael ask, “Mrs. Thomas, are there any weapons in the house we need to know about?”
“Gosh, no. I hate guns.”
Walking in the house, I instantly notice the walls are bare and they have minimal furniture. It’s clear to me that she’s the breadwinner in the family. As she picks up the five-by-seven picture in a frame located on the side of a sofa on a coffee table, she hands it to Michael. She gives him a forced weak smile, causing me to ask, “Mrs. Thomas, you said you think your husband has been arrested. Can you tell me why you think this?”
“I’m sure it’s obvious I don’t think too highly of my husband. Truth is, our marriage is on the verge of being over. If it wouldn’t be that he has no other place to go, I would’ve already kicked him out of the house. Two nights ago, he called me, sounding drunk. I hadn’t seen or heard from him all day and figured he was hanging out with his hoodlum friends.”
“Do any of these friends have a name?”
“I’ve only heard him mention nicknames. I’m quite sure no one willingly names their child Tee Boy or Mack Ten. Anyways, when he called, he wanted to know if he called for a cab, would I pay the fare. I told him I was fed up with all his shenanigans and he could walk home for all I cared. He even tried to give me his poor pity me story about how his life was out of control.”
Michael finally speaks up, asking, “What do you think he meant by that, Mrs. Thomas?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been changing his appearance lately.”
“How so?”
“Piercings and tattoos. He got one a little while back, and the next thing I know, he’s covered with them. I can’t even fathom where he’s getting the money for them.”
Listening to Mrs. Thomas, I realize I was right. She’d probably have a tough time killing a fly, much less her husband, and we can’t fault her for wanting him out of her life if he’s doing the things she says he is.
Deciding not to push too hard, I plainly say, “Mrs. Thomas, we’re going to need you to take a seat, please.”
With a look of skepticism, she says, “Detective, you’re making me nervous. Please, just tell me what it is.”
“Mrs. Thomas, we’re going to need to take you down to our station, where we’re going to have you transported to Franklin to meet a man named, Detective Tyler.”
I pause and gauge her facial expressions, trying to get a read on how she’s about to handle the news. Right away, I notice she has tears in her eyes, but not one has fallen yet, so I continue. “We believe your husband’s body was found this morning in Franklin, along Bayou Teche.”
As the tears begin to stream down her face, I hurry and finish my sentence, saying the last words I always dread saying. “Mrs. Thomas, we’re going to need you to allow a deputy to take you to identify the body.”
I watch as she silently shakes her head in a yes motion and begins to look around for her purse and shoes. I hate this part of my job; there’s never an easy way to tell someone that their loved one has died. Michael and I sit idly by and watch as she tries to collect herself, then any belongings she may need. Once she’s finished, we place her in Michael’s unit and head back down to the station.
On our way back in, I decide to find out as much as I can from Mrs. Thomas. In as gentle a voice as I can muster, I ask, “Mrs. Thomas, does your husband have a cell phone? If so, is under his name or yours?”
“He does, and it’s under his. I refused to put him on my plan.”
“Are there any other details you can think of that may help us to figure out where he went two days ago?”
“I’m not sure where he was all day and night, but I’m sure one of his stops was the tattoo parlor on Lafayette Street. I’m not sure of the name, though.”
Looking to Michael, I can tell he’s all ears, hanging on to her every word.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Thomas. We’ll figure it out after we get you to our office.”
Once we arrive back at the station, Michael and I escort Mrs. Thomas upstairs. We’re greeted by Detective Babin, who informs us he’ll be bringing Anna to Franklin. It only takes us a minute to hand her over to Babin and find ourselves heading straight to Lieutenant Clark’s office.
While walking, I hear Michael say under his breath, “I guess Det. Babin drew the short straw today.”
Unable to help myself, I begin to laugh all the way to the lieutenant’s door. That’s when we realize he’s not in his office.
Michael quickly looks over to Detective Richard and asks, “Hey Richard, where’s the lieutenant?”
“Left ea
rlier. Said he’d have his cell on him if he’s needed.”
“That’s it? Nothing more?”
“No, Grasso. What’s with the questions? You know the lieutenant only reports to the sheriff. Anyways, I’m not sticking my nose in it. For the last few weeks, they’ve been having a lover’s quarrel.”
I can’t help jumping in on the conversation, asking, “What have they been fussing about, Richard?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care. I happen to like my job and plan on keeping it. If you two are smart, you’ll do the same.”
Without saying another word to Detective Richard, Michael starts walking away. From over his shoulder, I hear him say, “Let’s go, Logan. We’ll catch up to the lieutenant later.”
I give Richard the once over, letting him know I’m disappointed in his attitude towards the whole situation, then turn to follow Michael. After catching up to him by the elevators, the doors open, and we walk in.
Waiting until they’re all the way closed, I quickly ask, “Are we going back to my apartment now?”
“Yes, and just so you know, I’d like to hold off discussing anything further dealing with Lieutenant Clark or the sheriff, at least until we’re back inside of your apartment. I don’t trust none of these motherfuckers right now.”
Taking note of his demeanor, I don’t utter another word until we’re back at my apartment. Once inside, I can’t help asking him what he’s so upset about. When he started rambling on about how the lieutenant has been acting strange for a few months now, I instantly kick myself because I realize I already know the answer to the question I just asked.
While listening to Michael, I head into the kitchen and fix myself the one thing I have left to eat in my house, a frozen dinner. I start to ask him if he wants one, but I figure it’s best if I wait until after he gets all his frustrations out first. By the time he’s done ranting, I’m seated at the table and devouring the frozen dinner like I haven’t eaten in a week. At one point, I think he takes notice of how I’m eating so quickly, but he seems to think better of asking about it.
Hoping to grab his attention away from my now almost empty tray, I abruptly say, “There’s another one in the freezer if you’d like one. I know you haven’t eaten all day either. At some point, we’re going to have to make a trip to a grocery store. As for the sheriff and the lieutenant, I totally agree with you on all fronts. I haven’t the slightest clue as to what’s going on between them, but it didn’t start until after John showed up here in town and started causing mayhem.”
“Logan, we need to discuss all the events from over the last two days.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Michael, but I’m almost certain I was right about the other night. I think the man in the car was Roy Thomas. And before you say it, yes, I was drunk. Even so, it all fits with the timeline we’re working in.”
“Logan, I believe you. And if Clark would have been in his office earlier, I was going to tell him as much. I don’t think any of this is a coincidence. I’m thinking after we finish eating and freshen up a little, we can take a drive over to the tattoo parlor and see if Roy was indeed there two days ago.”
“Sounds good to me. Also, you need to call Abigaila and check in on her. I’m also going to make a few phone calls myself before we head out again.”
I leave Michael at the table eating one of the frozen entrées I had left in the freezer. I’m assuming they’re still good, given that they’re frozen. I end up making my way to my bedroom first, to get a little peace and quiet while I call my mother. I haven’t seen her in a few months, and I don’t want to tell her everything that’s going on; I know it’ll cause her to worry more than she already does. I only need to tell her I’m back in town and will be by to see her soon.
Once I hang up with her, I turn directly around and place another call, this time to Detective Tyler. He picks up on the first ring, and from the tone in his voice he almost sounds chipper.
“Good afternoon, Logan, it’s nice to hear back from you.”
“This isn’t a social call, Tyler. I’m calling to let you know the wife of the victim you pulled out of Bayou Teche this morning will be arriving in your neck of the woods any minute to identify the body.”
“Is that so? What time did she leave Houma?”
“Almost an hour ago.”
“Man, you and Grasso jumped on that quick. Was she able to shed some light on what happened to her husband?”
“No, but Michael and I are about to head back out to hunt down a few leads she gave us earlier.”
“In other words, you don’t think she killed him.”
“Not a chance.”
“Okay, well if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to ask her a few questions myself. I want to see if I get the same warm and cozy feeling you got when talking with her.”
As I hear him start to laugh at his own joke, I can’t help rolling my eyes. I decide to cut the conversation short. “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you were doing. I was just giving you a courtesy call.”
Before he can try to keep me on the phone, I hurry and hang up. Leaning back on my pillow, I find myself closing my eyes and enjoying my moment of peace and quiet. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I know, I hear a knock at my bedroom door.
Not thinking, I sluggishly find myself saying, “Come in.”
Michael cautiously enters, the look on his face one of uncertainty as he says, “Hey, I was wondering if you were about ready to go to the tattoo parlor? It looks like you were asleep. Did I just wake you up?”
“Yeah, I must have dozed off without realizing it. Let me just go to the bathroom to freshen up, and then we can leave.”
“No problem. The place stays open till eleven tonight. I already called and checked to make sure.”
As I get up, I simply remind him that after we’re finished at the parlor, I’d like to take a trip to the store to buy food. That is, unless something else comes come up before then.
On the drive downtown, I attempt to make small talk. “Michael, while you were on the phone with the tattoo shop, did you happen to inquire about who owns it or ask who may have been working two days ago?”
“I asked if there was a manager on duty, and they told me the only management they have is the owner, who also happens to be the tattoo artist. His name is Carter Brien. He was busy tatting someone when I called. I didn’t bother leaving a message or my name. Anyways, I was surprised to find you in your room napping. Are you okay?”
“I think so. I’m just tired from lack of sleep over the past two nights. I’m hoping once we get back to my place, I can maybe finally get some rest.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue any further and allows me to observe the surroundings outside my window in peace. Looking at the time, I see it’s a little after seven-thirty; until now, it hadn’t dawned on me how long Michael let me sleep. I took a nap for over an hour while we were at my apartment; shit, I haven’t done that since I was a child.
Arriving at the tattoo shop, I notice the dingy old sign, the name of the business barely legible. Looking over to Michael, I can’t help saying, “This is a real shithole. No way would I allow them to put a needle in me. Makes me wonder how legit this place really is.”
With disappointment in his voice, I hear Michael say, “We’re about to find out. Make sure you stay close to me. No telling what kind of shady business they have going on in here.”
Upon entering the small, run-down building, the smell of smoke hits me as rock music blares through the speakers hanging on the wall. It doesn’t take me long to notice the spray-painted logo next to the speaker. Clear as day in blue and black letters is BCB. I don’t even have to tell Michael; I can see him eyeing it right along with me.
Leaning in close to him, I whisper, “The Bayou Cajun Boys. I’m guessing they’re regulars here?”
Ignoring me, Michael speaks up, catching the attention of a guy located toward the back of the room. He’s
hunched over a guy’s back, appearing to be in the middle of doing an outline for a new tattoo. Suddenly, I’m thankful for the rough and rugged look I chose to wear this morning to the prison. I don’t feel like an outcast walking into a place like this dressed in my street clothes.
Once the big guy is behind the counter, he swiftly asks, “What can I do for you tonight, tattoo or piercing?”
Michael instantly answers, “Neither. We’re here to ask you a few questions about a customer who may have dropped by here two days ago.”
With a confused look, the big guy replies, “I really don’t have time for this. I’m in the middle of a tattoo, and this is private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
In a stern voice, Michael quickly says as he pulls out his badge from his back pocket, “I don’t think I made myself clear the first time, so let’s try this again. We’re detectives from the homicide unit of the Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s Department, and we’re here to ask you a few questions about a victim who was pulled out of the water this morning. Now, we can either do this here, or I can gladly take you down to the station – and just so I’m making myself clear enough for you to understand, if we should happen to go down to the station, while we’re there, I’ll have narcotics get a warrant signed by the on-call judge to come search your building. The choice is yours; feel free to take a moment to decide.”
“Nah, man, we don’t have to do all that. What is it y’all want to know?”
Not giving Michael a chance to say anything, I quickly ask, “Did a man by the name of Roy Thomas come by two days ago? He’s a white male with brown hair, standing about five-eight. His wife says he started getting tattoos recently from here.”
“Roy? Yeah, he dropped in, didn’t stay long. He looked as if he was messed up. I would say it was about eight o’clock the other night, maybe a little after.”
“Did he happen to mention where he was going or what he wanted?”
“He claimed he was looking for the BCB boys, something about needing a place to hang low for the night. I told him I hadn’t seen any of them in a couple of days and he couldn’t hang out here. He said he was going to catch a ride somewhere else.”