by BJ Bourg
“So, what’s going on?” Katrina asked. “Is she in trouble?”
“There’s been a terrible incident,” Dawn said, careful not to use the word accident. “We need to know from you if there was anyone who might want to harm Joyce.”
Katrina grabbed at her throat with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut. Her breathing became labored and tears slipped through, spilling down her plump and red face. Dawn rubbed her arm and told her it was going to be okay and we were going to catch the person responsible. “We just need your help in determining if there was anyone who might want to harm her.”
Katrina shook her head from side to side. She finally opened her eyes and dabbed at them with her apron. “Joyce never had trouble with anyone that I know about. She was a good kid. Maybe a little too flirtatious at times, but a good kid, nonetheless.”
As Dawn asked the next question, my phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and frowned when I saw the number. “I have to take this,” I told Dawn, and hurried outside. I took a left when I cleared the doorway and walked to the edge of a wooden wharf. “Hey, Dave, what’s up?”
“London Carter…it’s been a long time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s it been…three years?”
“Closer to four. I heard you had quite a bit of action last year. They say you handled yourself like a real pro.”
“Everything ended the way it should. What about you? How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know, counting down the days until retirement.” Dave paused for a minute, and then said, “So, I hear you’ve got a real live one down there. Two victims in three days—clean head shots.”
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why’s the FBI calling about a local murder case?”
Dave laughed. “Come now, London, this ain’t the bureau you’re talking to. It’s me, Taz, just calling to catch up with an old friend.”
Dave was assistant team leader of the FBI’s local sniper division and he insisted his men never used real names. He’d nicknamed everyone on the team with the exception of their leader, Mule, who carried that name from high school. Dave had given himself the name Taz—short for the Tasmanian devil—because he was a huge fan of the Looney Tunes.
I sighed. “Sorry, you know how much I trust the feds.”
“I’m no regular suit, London…you know that. We’re sniper brothers. My blood runs up-vein, same as yours.”
“I know, man, I know.”
“So, what’s going on down there in alligator country?”
I told him what we’d been dealing with. “I’m not positive we have the right guy in custody, but I sure hope so. Without knowing what he wants, no one’s safe and everyone’s in danger.”
“That’s no lie.” Dave was quiet for a second, then told me to keep my head down and stay safe.
I disconnected the call and returned to our table, where Dawn was tearing into her Po-boy. “Sorry,” she said between mouthfuls. She stopped to wipe a bit of ketchup that had spilled onto her chin. “I’m just saving my own life. I was so hungry!”
I nodded absently and sat across from her, toying with my sandwich. Dawn cocked her head to the side. “What’s wrong?” She looked toward the door from where I’d just come and then back at me. “Was it the phone call? What’s going on?”
I looked up and smiled when I saw her sitting there holding her half-eaten Po-boy in one hand—the juices dripping down her wrist—with an inquisitive and eager look on her beautiful face. I didn’t know what she wanted more at that moment—the information or the Po-boy.
“Well?” she asked. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or make me beg?”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Bullshit. You’re starving and you haven’t even touched your food yet. What the hell’s going on?”
Am I being paranoid?
“An old friend of mine from the FBI just called to shoot the shit, and he asked about our case.”
Dawn stared blankly at me. “And? What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s an FBI agent—they don’t just call to shoot the shit.”
CHAPTER 27
Dawn and I rushed to the Seasville Substation after finishing our meal. She dropped to the large computer monitor in the evidence processing room and I paused by the door.
“Are you going to find out as much as you can about this Celeste Clarkston?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I’ll sit down with Shannon again while you do that.”
She just waved over her shoulder and began stabbing at the keyboard like a woman on a mission.
I pulled Shannon from his cell and led him to the interview room. “Tell me again what you were doing in Wellman Boudreaux’s boat.”
Shannon took an impatient breath and then recounted the same story he’d told earlier.
“And you know nothing about the young girl who was shot through the head?”
He shook his head slowly, a sad look on his face. “I would never hurt anyone, detective. Not an animal and most certainly not a human. It would be against my moral code.”
“Would it surprise you to know the dead girl was murdered in the same boat you stole?”
“Your good looking detective partner alluded to that earlier, and I’ve told you countless times I don’t know anything about a girl being raped or murdered.”
“Turns out, she wasn’t raped—just shot through the head with a high-powered rifle.”
Shannon tossed his hands up. “There you go—I don’t even have a high-powered rifle. Now may I leave?”
I leaned back and studied the man, wondering if I should believe him. My instincts were usually well calibrated, and they were telling me he had nothing to do with the murders. “How’s Celeste?” I asked.
Shannon cocked his head to the side. “Who?”
“Celeste Clarkston—how’s she doing?”
He seemed genuinely confused. “I don’t know a Celeste Clarkston.”
“Is that your van abandoned in the parking lot at the boat launch?” I asked, changing gears.
“No, but I saw it when I first got there to save the alligators. I actually thought about breaking into it and using it as a refuge from the mosquitoes.” He shook his head. “Either they don’t make tents like they used to or the mosquitoes down here can work a zipper, because I can’t keep those damn bloodsuckers out of my tent. You know animals can learn such things? Bears in Tennessee have learned to open car doors to steal food from inside. Can you believe that? They’ve learned how to commit a B and E.”
“Forget about the bears for a minute,” I said. “You’re in a hell of a pickle and I need you to recount—in detail—all of your activities from Wednesday and Thursday. Don’t leave anything out.”
After taking a deep breath, he gave a minute by minute accounting of his activities and whereabouts, and it didn’t include shooting Norris in the head.
“Why weren’t you at the boat launch this morning?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, we changed locations,” he explained. “We couldn’t do much to stop the killings of God’s giant lizards on shore, so we took to the water. One of my fellow saviors has a friend named Gary Allain—I told you about him earlier—who owns a camp on Little Bayou north of Pelican Pass. He invited us to stay with him. A warm cot certainly beats a cold tent floor.”
My outward expression remained fixed, but I’d taken note inwardly. The person who killed Norris had escaped through Little Bayou. Coincidence?
“You mentioned earlier that a friend was driving y’all around in his aluminum hull. Was that Gary?”
He nodded his head.
“Where’s he now?”
“Gary? I don’t know. When he dropped us off he said he was heading back to his camp. He said we were crazy for getting into a boat that didn’t belong to us out here in swamp country.” Shannon grunted. “He said it was akin to horse thievery in the Old West and that we’d be lucky if we didn’t get shot. He didn’t want any part of it, so
he got the hell out of there. My guess is he’s still at his camp.”
“During our first conversation, you admitted to damaging property belonging to a number of hunters.” I stared across the desk at him. “Do you still stand by that confession?”
“I do. I did it in self-defense for the alligators. Plain and simple, it was a case of justifiable damage to property and not punishable by your oppressive laws.”
“Of course not,” I said in mock agreement. “But did your friends encourage you to run from us? There’s no justification for that.”
“I didn’t run from you all. I was running from the hunters. I swear on my mom’s eyes.”
“I guess you didn’t hear the siren blaring?”
“Not until you were right on us, at which time I immediately stopped, so I cannot be tried for violating the crime of running from the police.”
I smiled to myself. He was certainly creative. After thirty more minutes of getting nowhere with him, I returned him to his cell and interviewed his three companions, one at a time. They all said exactly the same thing, which meant they’d either rehearsed their stories to the finest detail before we arrested them—an unlikely scenario—or they were telling the truth.
I booked them on the damage and resisting charges and then returned to where Dawn was still hovered over the computer.
“Got anything?” I asked.
“I think so.” She handed me a stack of papers. “This is every address for Celeste Clarkston over the past thirty years.”
I scanned the listings—most of which were located in northern Mississippi, with one in Provo, Utah and one in Casper, Wyoming—while Dawn’s fingers continued to drum on the keys. The printer fired to life and she leaned over and snatched a page off of the tray. She handed that one to me, as well.
“These are all the people who resided with her at each address. Check out the third name from the top.”
I found the name and stared at it for a split second. Patrick Clarkston. “Holy shit! That’s got to be Slick Patrick—you found him!”
Dawn was beaming. “It is. I ran his name in the address database, but he only shows up once, and it’s at that Mississippi address. I also ran a nationwide vehicle registration query, but he doesn’t own any vehicles.”
“Patrick Clarkston,” I said out loud, “who the hell are you?” I was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked Dawn if she’d tried running his criminal record.
“Nothing shows up under his name.” Dawn leaned back and pointed to the monitor screen. “He’s like a ghost. Why?”
“Good question. Can you have Melvin call the Moss Creek Police Department and see if they’ve had any complaints at that address? If they’ve responded to unlock Celeste’s car, I want to know about it. If they’ve responded to a noise complaint because Patrick’s dog was barking too much, I want to know about it. If the officers there had contact with him, they might know his true name.”
“Sure, but why Melvin?” Dawn’s brow puckered. “What are we doing?”
“We need to get out there and learn as much as we can about Joyce.”
“Gotcha.”
After Dawn had put in her request with Melvin, she and I drove to Joyce’s parent’s house and introduced ourselves. With their help, we began running down as many friends and family members as we could find. We must’ve interviewed two dozen people in the span of a few hours, but no one knew of any problems she’d had recently, nor did they ever think this could’ve happened to her. We also examined every electronic device she owned and had her dad access her phone records, but we turned up nothing suspicious.
It was late in the evening by the time we were done. Since one of Joyce’s friends we’d interviewed lived in Payneville, which was a town in the central part of Magnolia Parish and where our criminal operations center was located, we drove to the detective bureau and secured all of the evidence we’d recovered in lockers. I prepared crime analysis reports requesting that the bullet we’d just recovered be compared against the bullet that killed Norris. Hoping against hope that hair or other sources of DNA were caught up in the fabric, I also requested a forensic examination of the strips of burlap from both scenes. If it was present, I wanted it found.
We made our way to the parking lot and were about to go home when Dawn received a call from dispatch. After she spoke for a few seconds, she disconnected the call and frowned. “Doctor Fitch is wondering if anyone will attend the autopsy.”
“Sure,” I said. “When is it?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“She doesn’t want to miss church with her family, so she wants it done tonight.”
I sighed. “I guess I can think of worse things to do on a Saturday night than watch a young girl’s body being hacked open.”
We drove to the coroner’s office and attended the autopsy. Doctor Fitch wasn’t very talkative as she examined the victim. Once she was done, she presented her findings and, as with Norris, there were no surprises. A single gunshot wound to the head had killed her instantly.
“Do y’all have any leads?” Fitch asked as she removed her gloves and threw them into the hazardous waste container.
“We have a suspect in custody,” I said, “but to be honest, I don’t think he’s involved.”
Fitch’s face was slightly pale. “Are we in danger? Here in the parish—are we all in danger?”
Dawn and I traded glances. She turned her head as though she wasn’t touching the question. Not knowing what else to say, I said, “We live in a crazy world, Doc. We’re all in danger—all of the time.”
That didn’t ease Doctor Fitch’s mind, but it was how I felt. If a young girl who hadn’t lived long enough to make enemies with anyone could be ripped from this earth with such finality, then we were all in trouble.
As we were leaving the coroner’s office, Melvin called Dawn to tell her the Moss Creek Police Department had never had any dealings with a Patrick from that address.
“There goes that,” I said.
Dawn drove me to the Seasville Substation and we parted ways for the night—at least, physically. I found myself thinking about her on the drive home and through my shower. She was still on my mind when I dropped my head to the pillow and tried to sleep.
CHAPTER 28
Sunday, September 2
It was quarter to six in the morning when Orville made his way to the back porch of the Simoneaux camp and sat in the wooden rocker to nurse his second cup of coffee. He’d let the bib of his coveralls hang when he walked outside, and the cool morning breeze felt good against his bare chest. There was a thick line of fog clinging to the air and it added to the chill he felt. “Maybe we’ll get a real winter this year,” he mused aloud, scanning the trees behind his house. The waters of Pelican Pass had finally receded and the land around the camp was visible again. It was sloppy and wet, but at least it was exposed and the sun could go to work drying the property.
He caught sight of the rocking chair where Norris used to sit and frowned, tears coming to his eyes. Norris could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but he loved his younger brother. It was so hard to believe he was gone. In fact, he kept waiting to hear him push roughly through the screen door and settle his large frame into the rocking chair, causing it to creak under his weight.
Orville lowered his head to sip from his coffee cup. The black liquid singed his tongue—just how he liked it. He raised his head and stopped, a curious expression falling over his face. He wiped the mist from his eyes to clear his vision. He was intimately familiar with the entire Simoneaux property. Having played hide-and-seek in the back yard nearly every day as a young boy, he knew every bush, nook, and cranny out there. Something didn’t seem right that morning.
Rising slowly to his feet, Orville turned his good ear toward the forest, listening. There were no birds chirping, which was odd. He scanned the tree trunks. On a regular day, there was no shortage of squirrels scampering about, chasing each other from tree to tree and fighting ov
er the tidbits of food they’d find. There was none of that activity this morning. Not a movement or whisper of sound.
Orville suddenly caught his breath and his heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw the bush. It was fifteen feet from the back steps and low to the ground. It looked like a normal bush and no reason for alarm, except that it wasn’t there last month, last week, or even thirty minutes ago when he first walked outside.
He opened his mouth to shout, and the bush suddenly grew to about six feet tall. A camouflaged rifle barrel rose from under the leafy substance and pointed directly at him. He dropped his coffee mug—feeling the scalding liquid and shards of glass pepper his ankles and bare feet—and screamed. This was how Norris had died, and now it was his turn!
In a panic, he started to turn to run inside, but the bush closed the distance between them in a flash, leaping completely over the steps and landing lightly on the wooden porch, barely making a sound. Before Orville could reach the back door, a large hand grabbed him by the rear bib of his overalls and jerked him onto his back. As he fell, he twisted around to catch himself with his hands and saw six other bushes rushing from the trees, ascending on his house like a fleet of mosquitoes going after a naked human in the middle of the swamps.
Orville started to scream a warning to his family, but the bush on his back shoved his face to the floor and told him to shut his mouth. The voice was rough and unfriendly.
“Please don’t kill us,” Orville begged. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Shut up,” the bush said again, as the others scampered across the porch and entered the house. “We’re not going to kill anyone if we can help it.”
There were screams from inside, followed by loud commands telling his family to get to the ground and to shut their mouths. Orville thought he heard his dad cursing someone out, but he couldn’t be sure. He began silently cursing himself for convincing his dad to let their friends go back to their own homes. He’d been certain the threat had passed and that it was only a matter of time before the law caught the murdering bastard. After all, the killer had struck on Wellman Boudreaux’s property again, so he figured if they stayed on their side of the line they’d be safe. And now this…