by BJ Bourg
CHAPTER 27
12 years earlier…
Wednesday, August 25
Breechville, Kentucky
The young boy struggled against the ropes, but it was no use. Stepdad and his friend had wrestled him to the ground in the hallway and tied his hands and arms together.
“Please, just stop fighting!” mom cried from the utility room nearby. “Just apologize and it’ll all be over!”
The boy gritted his teeth and shook his head, glaring up at his captors. “I’ll never apologize.”
Stepdad ran his hand through his wet bushy hair. “You either apologize or I dunk your head in the toilet.”
“I’ll never apologize!”
Stepdad looked at his friend and nodded. “Let’s get him up.”
The friend grabbed his legs and Stepdad grabbed his arms, and the two men lifted him easily into the air. He kicked and twisted, but the boy knew he was no match for either of them one-on-one, much less two against one. He hadn’t weighed himself in a long time, but he could see his ribs and he knew he wasn’t eating enough. Stepdad would bring food into the basement two times each day and he was allowed up top for dinner, but the portions were never enough to quell the hunger pangs in his stomach. He often felt dizzy and he even passed out once. It was only for a few seconds, but he thought he was dying and it scared him.
His mom would go down into the basement several times each day to make sure he was doing his schoolwork, and she once slipped him three slices of bread and a soft drink. Later that same day, he heard angry boots pounding on the floor above him and then things started crashing to the ground. The noise was followed closely by his mom’s screams. Stepdad came stomping into the basement minutes later and took a belt to him—he didn’t use the soft end.
They were nearing the bathroom now and the boy was kicking and struggling as hard as he could. He knew it was futile to fight, but he couldn’t just lie still and take this. “Let me go, you monster!” he yelled. “When I grow up, I’m going to make you pay for this!”
Stepdad roared in laughter as they approached the hallway bathroom. The young boy had been held captive in the basement for so long that he had forgotten how small the bathroom was. The walls seemed closer together and it was hard for the two grown men to move around in the confined space.
This is my chance, the boy thought. When the bottom of his feet brushed against one of the walls, he gave a violent kick and it caused the friend to lose his balance. The boy wriggled aggressively and the friend dropped his legs, which caused Stepdad to stumble forward.
The boy landed on the ground with a thump, and Stepdad fell on top of him, smashing his ribs and forcing the wind from his lungs. As the boy fought for air, Stepdad snatched him from the ground by the hair and slapped him in the face. “You think that’s funny?” the man bellowed. “Try that again and see what happens to you! I’ll take a shit on your face, boy!”
The room spun and the boy felt his strength waning, but he gritted his teeth in defiance. Stepdad and the friend flipped him over and lifted him into the air by his feet, leaving his head to dangle a few inches off the ground. They shuffled through the crowded bathroom and the boy’s face slammed up against the cold porcelain toilet bowl and he jerked away. Panic filled his heart as he realized what was about to happen. This was real. It wasn’t a drill and it wasn’t a joke. He was about to get his head dunked in a toilet.
“Ready?” Stepdad called to his friend. “Let’s lift him higher.”
The boy felt himself being jerked high into the air. Trembling, he glanced at the toilet bowl below his head. It loomed ominously; a giant mouth waiting to swallow him alive.
“You’ve got one more chance,” Stepdad said in a strained voice as he and his friend held the boy steady. “Say you’re sorry and you can avoid this.”
“I’ll never surrender to you,” said the boy. “I’ll never give in—”
The boy was dropped violently downward and the water from the toilet bowl cut his comment short. He choked as water shot into his upward-turned nose and into his mouth.
Stepdad and his friend pulled him out of the water. “Say you’re sorry!”
Choking and gasping for air, the boy screamed, “No! Never!”
Stepdad continued to dunk his head in the toilet. Each time Stepdad pulled him out of the water, he offered the boy a chance to apologize, but the boy doggedly refused. Finally, when they were too tired to hold him up any longer, Stepdad told his friend to drop him to the ground. “That’s it…if he doesn’t apologize, I’m going to piss all over him.”
The boy lay on the ground gasping for air, struggling to keep his eyes open. He could feel himself slipping away, like he had the day he’d passed out. But before everything went black, he said softly, “I’ll never surrender to you…”
CHAPTER 28
9:47 p.m.
Old Man Pat’s Place
A cloud of cigarette smoke swirled from the doorway when Susan and I stepped into Old Man Pat’s Place. We both scrunched our noses and tried to see through the haze. What I saw up on the stage made me wish for more smoke…and maybe even some fire. Although I’d never been tempted to go to strip clubs, this was not what I would’ve envisioned as a “gentleman’s” club.
“Is that even legal?” Susan asked, pointing toward the women who were dancing in lingerie with all the pertinent pieces missing.
“I don’t know, and I’m just glad we’re out of our jurisdiction.” I led the way to the bar, where an elderly man was counting money. The place wasn’t empty, but there weren’t a lot of people inside either. The few customers they did have, though, seemed to be high-rollers. Money was scattered all over the stage. From what I could see, there were just as many hundreds as there were ones.
Old Man Pat took one look at me and Susan—who was trying to be as inconspicuous on her crutches as possible—and his face fell. “What the hell?” he bellowed over the music blaring from the speakers overhead. “It’s not enough that I’m down—now y’all want to kick me, too?”
I raised a hand and leaned across the bar so he could hear me. “We’re not here about your business,” I said. “I’m not even in my jurisdiction. I just need to know if someone was here Friday night.”
Pat sighed visibly and waved for us to follow him around the bar. I stood back and watched as Susan struggled to get through the narrow opening.
“Do you need any help getting—”
“No!” she said, cutting me off. “I’ve got it. Just leave me alone.”
I smiled to myself, appreciating how independent she was, and watched as she finally squirted through the other side and followed Pat along the length of the bar. A bartender in a bikini that was two sizes too small squeezed up against the whiskey rack to make room for us to pass. Once we were in the back room and the door was shut, Pat pulled a towel from his waistband and wiped his sweaty face.
“I’m just trying to make an honest living, you know?” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s not that I don’t support the law—I do support you guys because you have it rough—it’s just that some people in this area are hell-bent on seeing me shut down and they’re using the sheriff’s office to do it.”
“Well, that’s not why we’re here.” I pulled out my phone and accessed the photo I’d taken of Chris Jenkins. “Do you know this guy?”
Pat took one glance at the image and grunted. “Chris-tee Jenkins…yeah, I know that little pecker head.”
“I’d like to ask some of your dancers if they recognize him and if he was in here Friday night.”
“No need for that,” Pat said, shaking a head that was topped with thick gray hair. “That little punk was banned from the premises two months ago, right when he got out of prison.”
“Why was he banned?” I asked.
“He thought it would be okay to grope one of my dancers without her permission, and we don’t stand for that here.”
I chewed on this information, but insisted on showing his dancers the p
hoto. “I have to be sure he wasn’t here.”
Pat nodded and pulled out his work schedule for Friday night. “Give me a minute.”
He left Susan and me alone in the office and went to summon the dancers.
“If we have to spend one more minute in this place,” Susan whispered, “we’re going to need an acid bath.”
I nodded my agreement and waited impatiently for Pat to return with the dancers. He brought three girls in, one by one, and I showed each of them the picture. They all recognized him, but none of them saw him Friday night—or any other night since he’d been banned from the place.
Susan and I traded glances when the last dancer left. I looked back at Pat. “What about the bartender?”
Pat opened the door and hollered at the bartender in the tiny bikini and asked her to look at the picture. She shook her head and glanced in Pat’s direction. “I haven’t seen him since you kicked him out on his ass back in September.”
“Was anyone else working Friday night?” I asked.
Pat shook his head. “That’s all of them, and they all know not to let him back in my place. When you get banned, you’re banned for life.”
We thanked Pat and waded through the smoke until we finally reached the cold fresh air outside. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It feels so good to breathe again!”
“Well, Chris is still in play as a suspect,” Susan said as we entered my Tahoe. “If the gun’s a match, that’s his ass.”
I nodded, thoughtful. “I wonder if Connie directed him toward Mitch. Chris seems too dumb to figure out when and where Mitch was working, and he’s not motivated enough to make his way down to Mechant Loup on a bicycle.”
“Maybe she gave him a ride?”
That was possible, as was anything, but I didn’t need possibilities—I needed evidence. Chris lied about being in the club Friday night, and I could use that against him, but it didn’t mean he killed Mitch. His gun had to match the bullet and the casing from the murder scene or I would find myself back at the starting line. If that happened, it would be a long week for me and I would probably be missing Thanksgiving lunch.
“Hey, you got a message on your BudRelat page!” Susan said, holding up her phone. “Do you want to read it or do you want me to do the honors?”
“You go ahead,” I said, surprised that my heart had begun to race a little as she logged in and opened the message. She groaned and I slowed the Tahoe and turned to look at her. “What is it?”
“It’s from Crystal Montana. She…she says she doesn’t have a brother and her dad doesn’t have a son.” Susan held up the phone and frowned. “And she blocked you.”
CHAPTER 29
Monday, November 21
La Mort Police Department Crime Lab
After turning all of my evidence over to the intake officer at the La Mort Crime Lab, I asked if they could expedite the testing. “These are for an active homicide investigation and I need to know if this pistol is the murder weapon,” I said. “The killer is still at large, so it’s critical that I get this back as soon as possible.”
The intake officer nodded her head. “As are all of your cases, Chief Wolf.”
“I’m no longer the chief of police in Mechant Loup.”
“I know, but it’ll take me a while to get used to your new title—just like it takes me until February of every year to get used to writing the current year.” She smiled. “But don’t worry; I’ll put a rush on everything. You should hear back from the firearms examiner later today and the fingerprint expert tomorrow or Wednesday.”
I thanked her and walked out of the building. I checked my phone. It was nine o’clock. I knew I should head back to Chateau Parish to file a return on the search warrant of Connie Taylor’s house, but I wanted to speak with my grandmother. Susan had located an address through some website on her laptop, and she was pretty certain it was accurate. She had also run an Internet search and found Garvan Montana’s name on his father’s obituary in a newspaper from La Mort, and we were able to ascertain that his mother—my grandmother—was named Hazel Montana.
I scrolled through the last few text messages Susan had sent and I found the address. Having spent two years working as a patrol cop and ten years as a homicide detective with the La Mort Police Department, I was very familiar with the streets and neighborhoods in the city. Of course, it had been four years since I’d traveled throughout the area and things looked a bit different than they did back then. It was remarkable what four years could do to a place. A few buildings I used to know had been torn down and new ones had sprung up, and some streets had seen improvements while others had gotten worse.
The address was at the corner of Meg and Seventh—thirty minutes away on a good day, but on a busy Monday, it would take me forty-five minutes if I was lucky. I was tempted to just drive away, to head back to Mechant Loup, but I needed to know why my mom didn’t want me to meet this woman. I also wanted to know why Garvan Montana had abandoned my mom and me and taken my sister away. Had my mom cheated on him? Perhaps I was the product of an adulterous relationship. She claimed she met Ezekiel after becoming pregnant with me, but what if it was for someone other than Garvan? It hurt my head to try and figure it all out. There were so many possibilities and only one truth. Unfortunately for me, I’d probably have to work hard to learn the truth.
Many questions swirled through my mind as I drove. I finally reached the interstate and found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I groaned and wondered how I’d gotten anything done when I lived out here. I definitely remembered spending most of my life in a car, waiting for the roads to clear. It seemed like such a waste.
When I finally reached the exit to get onto Meg, I eased to the shoulder and took the ramp. It was a short drive to Seventh from there and, thankfully, the traffic was much lighter. I got stuck at the light, but soon found myself on Seventh.
The street was narrow and bumpy and it only got worse as I drove farther toward the back. The houses were so close together that I didn’t know how anyone who suffered from claustrophobia could live there. I’d never realized how cramped these city streets were until I moved to the expansive swamplands to the south.
When I finally saw the number I was looking for on one of the houses, I pulled to the curb and took in the area. It was a blue two-story duplex and, according to the number, hers was the one on the left. In a city of steel, asphalt, and concrete, there were only a few strips of natural greenery between the sidewalks up and down Seventh Street, and it appeared Hazel Montana had created her own little jungle out here. Various types of plants were growing in small pots and lined the concrete steps. There were also a few pots hanging from the roof of the porch.
I texted Susan to let her know I was fixing to make contact with my newfound grandmother, and then I removed my gun and badge before exiting my Tahoe. I didn’t want to scare her or make her think I was there on official business.
Wiping the sweat from my hands and clearing my throat, I crossed the small patch of land between the street and the house and ascended the flight of steps. There was a screen door in front of the main door and I reached for it so I could knock. It was locked, so I pounded on the white doorframe. Cursing myself for feeling so nervous about meeting long lost family members, I stepped to the side—out of force of habit, and not because I thought she would shoot through the door—and waited for someone to answer.
When no one came to the door, I knocked a second time, but harder. I leaned against the metal railing and glanced along the side of the house. There was a small white car parked near a green garbage can. Under the overhang of the porch, a broom was leaning against the wall, some Crocs were positioned next to the door, and the plants appeared healthy and well-watered.
I lifted my hand to knock again, but stopped when I heard feet shuffling from inside. There were clattering sounds as multiple latches and locks were apparently being dismantled. Finally, the old fashioned door handle turned and the door creaked open just a crack.
I could see that a chain was still attached and an elderly woman stood on the other side, squinting through black-rimmed glasses. She appeared to be in her early to mid-seventies and she wore brown polyester pants and a checkered apron. The tantalizing smell of fried shrimp escaped through the partially opened door and my stomach growled.
“Hello, ma’am,” I greeted, flashing a friendly smile. “I was wondering if I could have a word with—”
“Garvan? Is that you?” the woman opened the door wider and stepped forward, peering through the screen. “I thought you weren’t coming down until Wednesday.”
CHAPTER 30
“I’m Clint, ma’am…Clint Wolf,” I said to the woman. “Are you Hazel Montana?”
The woman pulled off her glasses and wiped them with the front of the apron that hung around her neck. When she shoved them back on her face, she moved closer to me and peered up into my face. “Dear Lord, you look just like my Garvan did when he was a young man. What did you say your name was again?”
“I’m Clint Wolf.” I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m your grandson.”
The woman studied me for a moment, but then shook her head “I’m sorry, but I only have one grandchild, and she’s a girl. And I’m not kin to any Wolfs.”
“Would that grandchild be Crystal Montana?”
The woman nodded. “She’s the only grandchild I have. You must have me confused with somebody else.”
“No ma’am, I don’t. Crystal is my sister and Garvan is my dad. My mom’s Nancy Montana—she’s a Wolf now. She and Garvan were married for—”
“You don’t need to tell me about Nancy.” Hazel’s top lip curled up into a sneer. “The best thing that ever happened to Garvan was when he left that she-devil. Pardon me for speaking ill of your mother. I don’t mean to; it’s just that she really did a number on my boy.”