by BJ Bourg
“Maybe I’ll find Garvan Montana down there,” I said, stealing a glance at my mom. “He might be running a surf shop on the beach.”
She didn’t even look at me.
CHAPTER 15
Sunday, November 20
It was a little after five in the morning when I met Mallory Tuttle in Northern Chateau and followed her down a long country road. It was paved, but bumpy and narrow. After driving for about thirty minutes, I finally saw signs of civilization when a middle school and a library came into view, but we were quickly swallowed up by trees again as we continued onward.
We eventually drove over a flat bridge that crossed a narrow canal, and Mallory pulled to the left side of the road immediately upon crossing the bridge. There was a wide area off the shoulder that was covered in shells, and it appeared to be where cars turned around. She whipped around and I pulled up on her driver’s side and slid my window down. A blast of cold air blew in and I shivered. It had dropped into the thirties overnight and I hated it.
Mallory shoved the gearshift of her unmarked Dodge Charger in Park and lowered her window. She shot a thumb over her shoulder.
“Chris Jenkins lives in a shed about three houses down.” Mallory brushed some strands of long brown hair out of her eyes. “Last time I arrested him, we parked in front of the shed and he broke out the back while we were getting out of our cars. We caught him, but we had to chase him about a mile into the swamps to get him.”
I nodded and stared straight ahead. My headlights were trying to penetrate the eerie fog that covered the area. “What do you propose?”
“His shed is in the middle of a large field and it’s built on solid ground,” Mallory explained. “Why don’t I drive directly to the back of the shed and you pull up to the front door? That way, we’ll have everything covered if he tries to run.”
I nodded and removed my seatbelt. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Mallory revved her engine and her back tires spun in the loose shells as she whipped around and headed for Jenkins’ place. I remained close behind her. When we reached this large lot with a tiny square object situated in the middle of it, she crossed over a dirt driveway and sped across the property. I smashed the accelerator and went wide to the right, driving around her and coming up behind the metal shed.
I was out of my Tahoe in a flash, but the back door was already open and a tall skinny fellow was jumping the steps to run. He landed in a stumbling run and that bought me some precious time to reach him. I smashed my shoulder into his thin ribs and he grunted audibly as I propelled him through the air. We both landed hard, but I was on top and his wind had been knocked out.
I flipped him onto his belly and jerked his arms behind his back. Before I could reach for my cuffs, Mallory was beside me and she put a boot on his neck.
“Make a wrong move and I’ll stomp a mud hole in your throat,” she said.
“What’s going on?” Chris wailed from the ground. “You can’t do this to me. You’re just mad that I was set free on good time, but my lawyer said that’s the law and there’s nothing you can do about it. He said if I get harassed even once by—”
“A condition of your parole was that you sign up with a parole officer and meet with him monthly.” Mallory bent over and grabbed his left arm while I grabbed his right arm. When we stood him to his feet, she looked up at him. “But you skipped your first meeting and now you’re going back to prison.”
“I didn’t skip my first meeting! I went to it and I signed up and we talked and he told me everything would be fine.”
“At that first meeting, when you signed up with him,” Mallory explained, “he told you when the next meeting would be, and that was last week. You didn’t show up, so here we are to save the day.”
Chris moaned as we stood him to his feet and walked him to Mallory’s car. After strapping him into the back seat, Mallory called for a patrol car to guard the place until Jenkins’ parole officer could arrive to search it. Once the deputy arrived, I followed Mallory to the detective bureau in Central Chateau, and we went about interviewing Chris.
CHAPTER 16
“This is Clint Wolf,” Mallory told Chris, indicating with her head toward me. “He’s from Mechant Loup and he’s got some questions for you about Mitch Taylor.”
Chris’s face twisted into a painful scowl. He was an ugly one, that’s for sure. His face was long and narrow. There were three or four wild tufts of hair sticking up from his bare dome and a long scar stretched from his left eye down to his chin. “I don’t know no Mitch Taylor,” he said. When he spoke, I could almost see his rancid breath float across the space between us.
Trying not to gag, and in the interest of officer safety, I eased a little farther back in my chair.
Mallory had caught a whiff, too, and she waved her hand in front of her face. “Damn, dude, what the hell crawled up in your mouth and died?”
Chris grinned, exposing a row of stained teeth. “It’s a defense mechanic. I used it in prison to keep the perverts off of me. I guess it works on cops, too.”
“Mechanism,” Mallory said.
His face fell. “What?”
“It’s called a defense mechanism.” Mallory brought him back to the subject at hand. “You remember Mitch Taylor. He’s the witness who identified you at your trial—you know, the one you threatened in open court. What were your exact words again?”
Chris’ eyes fell. “That was a long time ago. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“No?” Mallory cocked her head to the side. “You didn’t mean it when you said you would kill him once you got out of prison and that he would never sleep easy again?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a changed man. I swear on my grandmother’s grave.”
“Let’s leave your grandmother out of this.” Mallory pointed toward me. “Answer Chief Wolf’s questions.”
“You can start by telling me where you were and what you did Friday night,” I said.
“Friday night…” Chris stared up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember. “Is that the night it rained real bad?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“Hmm, I don’t remember what I did Friday night.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And you can’t remember what you did two nights ago?”
He shook his head. “I think I was home drinking. If not, I was down the road at Old Man Pat’s Place.”
I’d heard of Old Man Pat’s Place. It was a shoddy bar set back in the swamps where a man—or woman—could get more than a lap dance for anything south of twenty bucks. Old Man Pat was in the news not long ago for Letting Premises for Prostitution. If found guilty, his property would be seized and sold at public auction, but word on the street was that the witnesses were no longer cooperating with the district attorney’s office.
“Did you get rained on that night?” I asked.
“No. I was inside.”
“Who was with you inside?”
“Nobody.”
“What time did the rain start?”
“I don’t remember. A little after midnight, I think.”
“What were you doing when the rain started?”
“Drinking a beer.”
“Was Jack Billiot there?”
Chris scrunched his face. “Who?”
“Jack…the drunk from town.”
“From here?”
“No, from Mechant Loup.”
Chris shook his head rapidly from side to side. “I don’t know no Jack Billiot and I wasn’t in Mechant Loup on Friday.”
“No?” I cocked my head to the side. “When were you in Mechant Loup?”
“I haven’t been there since I got out of prison.”
I leaned forward, but carefully. “Do you own a handgun?”
“No.”
“You don’t own a nine millimeter pistol?”
His eyes darted around the room as he shook his head.
“You do real
ize your parole officer is searching your house as we speak, don’t you?” I asked. “He’s going through everything in your place. If you have a marijuana seed in your pillowcase he’s going to find it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Chris was looking for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Twitching and shaking, he finally pounded his fists on the table. “Okay, look, there’s a pistol in my house, but it’s not mine. It was there when I moved in.”
“What kind is it?” I asked. “Make, color, caliber?”
“I don’t know the brand name, but it’s black and I think it’s a nine millimeter.” He shook his head from side to side. “But it’s not mine and I never even touched it.”
“Where’s it located in the house?”
“It’s in the front pocket of a leather jacket in the closet. The jacket was there before I moved in.”
Mallory glanced at me for the okay to move in on the interview, and I nodded. She leaned forward. “Chris, when did you move into this shed?”
“When I got out of prison.”
“Had you lived there before?”
He shook his head.
“The only other place you’ve ever lived was with your mom on Sycamore?”
He nodded.
“And you say you found this pistol in the pocket of a leather jacket that was already in the shed when you moved in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chris said cautiously, as though he thought he was being lured into a trap.
“Does this leather jacket have a big eagle embroidered on the back?”
Chris nodded weakly.
“That’s your jacket,” Mallory said. “You were wearing it the night I arrested you for the carjacking. They gave it back to you when they released you from prison and you put that pistol in the pocket, didn’t you?”
Chris’s head was nearly resting on the desk now.
“Chris, where’d you get the gun?” Mallory asked. “You and I both know you didn’t find it, so stop wasting our time. Where’d you get it?”
“I found it in a car.” Chris was mumbling now and we could barely understand him.
“What car?” Mallory asked.
“Up the road from where I live.”
Mallory’s fingers drummed the desk and her eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, she grunted. “So, it was you who broke into the principal’s car at the school. You stole his pistol, didn’t you? That would’ve been a week after you got out of prison.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chris said softly. “I needed a gun for protection and everyone around here knows he keeps a gun in his car.”
Mallory leaned back and nodded to let me know she was done.
“Chris, I guess you’re smart enough to know your parole officer is going to bring that pistol to me,” I began, “and I’m going to send it to the crime lab. Will it match the shell casing we recovered from the crime scene and the bullet we recovered from the dead man’s body?”
Chris lifted his head and threw his hands in the air. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“If you killed Mitch Taylor, then you know they’re going to match.”
“What if that principal killed this Mitch person you keep talking about? What about that?” He shook his head and dropped his hands at his sides. “That would be my dumb luck—steal a gun that was used in a murder.”
“So, you think this gun will match my shell casing?” I pressed.
“I don’t know. All I know is I didn’t kill nobody.”
“Who can verify you were at Old Man Pat’s Friday night?”
“There was this dancer I talked to, but I don’t remember her name.”
“What does she look like?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What time did you leave?”
“When they closed.”
“Do you have a car?”
“No.”
“Then how do you get around?”
“There’s this bike I use. It’s for my neighbor, but she lets me use it whenever I want.”
I nodded and studied the man in front of me. He was as good a suspect as Connie, maybe better. I didn’t have a shred of evidence to hold him on the murder, but his parole violation and the new charge of a felon being in possession of a firearm would keep him locked up until his revocation hearing.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of him.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked, his lips curling up in anger.
“It might help save you from a murder charge.”
“How’s that?”
“If one of those dancers at Old Man Pat’s remembers you and verifies you were in their place at the time of my murder, then you’re all clear.”
“I’m already all clear,” he said, “because I know I didn’t do it.”
CHAPTER 17
“He said the same thing about the carjacking,” Mallory told me when we had concluded the interview and gone to her office. “He swore all the way to trial that he didn’t do it, even though we had an eye witness and his DNA in the stolen vehicle. He tried to say we planted his blood and skin cells on the airbag that smashed his face in.”
While we were talking, the door to her office opened and Doug Cagle walked in. Doug was a detective for the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office. Although we’d had our differences in the past, we got along okay. He shook my hand and placed an evidence bag on Mallory’s desk. “Here’s the pistol,” he said to Mallory. “It was exactly where you said it would be.”
Mallory nodded. “Fill out a chain of custody form and sign it over to Clint.”
Doug nodded and walked out to retrieve the form. Once he’d filled it out and the black nine millimeter pistol was in my possession, I thanked them both and stepped out into the daylight. The sky was clear and it had warmed up a little, but it was still in the low forties and too cold for my blood. Tucking the evidence bag under my arm, I zipped my jacket high and walked to my Tahoe. It was warmer inside—thanks to the sun beating down on it—and I fired up the engine and headed south for Mechant Loup. It was too early to pay a visit to Old Man Pat’s, so I decided to see if Connie Taylor was home.
I called Susan as I drove and she seemed excited to hear from me.
“Hey, I think I’ve got some good news.”
“What is it?” I asked, hoping she was going to tell me she had changed her mind about having a cruise wedding. I’d never been on a cruise, and being around a boatload of drunken people didn’t seem like my idea of paradise. I certainly didn’t need the temptation, as I was determined to never have another drink as long as I lived.
“I might’ve found something—a lead.”
“On this case?” My interest was piqued. “I’d welcome anything you have.”
“No, it’s about your family. I think I may have located your sister, Crystal.”
“Really? Where is she? How’d you find her?”
“I was looking up—”
Susan stopped abruptly and I heard someone speaking to her in the background. I recognized my mom’s voice. Susan must’ve cupped her hand over the phone, because her voice was muffled when she responded to my mom. A few seconds later, she came back on the phone and said she had to go. “We can finish discussing this later. It’s no big deal.”
But it was a big deal, and we both knew it. My mom was keeping a secret and I was going to find out what it was…one way or the other. I thanked Susan and ended the call just as I was turning onto Coconut Lane. I pulled right into Connie Taylor’s driveway this time. The same truck was parked in the same spot and everything else looked unchanged.
I dropped from my Tahoe and sauntered across the yard, stopping beside the front door to knock. My fist was poised over the frame to knock when the knob turned and the door opened to the inside. A woman, who was looking down as she walked, stepped outside and ran directly into me. She let out a shrill scream and lunged violently backward. I had to lean forward and catch her so she wouldn’t fall.
“I’m Clint Wolf,” I said qui
ckly, “with the police department.”
Connie threw a hand over her mouth and suddenly began laughing. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I apologize.” I watched as she straightened herself and took a few calming breaths. I then asked if she was Connie Taylor, wife of Mitch Taylor.
She nodded somberly. “I heard what happened. Unfortunately, I had to hear it from his lover.”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. We received a welfare concern from a woman stating she was his girlfriend, so when we found him…” I frowned.
“I understand.” She stepped forward and indicated with her head toward the white rockers on either side of the doorway. “Would you like to sit? I imagine you have some questions. I would invite you inside, but my parents are here and my mother would only talk your ear off.”
It was a nice day, so I didn’t mind being outside, but I wondered if there was something—or someone—inside that she didn’t want me to see.
After giving her some of the basics concerning the circumstances surrounding her estranged husband’s death, I asked if she knew of anyone who would want to harm Mitch.
“Well, I’ve wished him dead on more than one occasion,” she said bluntly, “but, other than me, I don’t know of anyone else who would want to kill him.”
CHAPTER 18
I knew immediately that I liked Connie Taylor. This could go one of two ways; she was innocent and simply speaking candidly, or she was guilty and trying to hide in plain sight. Either way, she was cool and had a good sense of humor.
“I hear things weren’t going well between you and Mitch.”
“Things were going great until he met that little slut, Brandy Lewis. Mitch thought she loved him, or some such nonsense, but women like her don’t love anyone but themselves.” Connie crossed one slender leg over the other and rocked slowly in her chair. She wore a blue jean skirt and a red sweater that made her dark hair seem even darker. Her eyes were the color of coal and I wondered if it matched her heart.