Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  “You’re still here.”

  “I’m a sheriff ’s deputy. A few of us stayed behind to secure the building.”

  “Looks like you got hit pretty hard here,” Beth said.

  “Yeah, the water’s about eight feet deep.”

  “Did it do much damage?”

  “Flooded the basement completely—right up to the ceiling.”

  “What’s in the basement?” Nick asked. “Anything important?”

  “Judges’ parking lot, jury rooms, the coroner’s office—it’s all underwater. The big problem is the evidence rooms.”

  Nick blinked. “The what?”

  “We’ve got seven evidence and records rooms down there, all of ’em flooded. It’s a real mess—stuff dating back seventy years.”

  “What do you keep in the evidence rooms?”

  “Everything—case files, court records, evidence submitted during trials—we store it all down there. They’ll have to wait until the water goes down just to see what’s left—then they’ll have mud, and slime, and mold. They say they’ll have to bring in salvage experts just to see what they can save.”

  “That’s got to slow things down around here.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s a disaster. We had three thousand cases pending before the storm, and every one of them just ground to a halt—some of them won’t ever make it to court now.”

  “Why not?” Beth asked.

  “How can you have a trial? Defendants, witnesses, they all fled the city—there aren’t even enough people left to fill a jury pool. Then there’s the evidence—you lose a critical piece of evidence and the trial’s over.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “That’s exactly right.”

  “It’s a problem for the higher courts too. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals—that’s down by Lafayette Square—they count on us for evidence and records too. When a man files an appeal, the appeals court sends over for his trial record; if we don’t have a record for them to review, they order a retrial. But how can there be a retrial without the original evidence? There can’t be—if the evidence is lost, the conviction gets overturned.”

  “And bad guys end up back on the streets,” Nick said. “That’s got to be frustrating for a lot of people—a lot of hard work down the drain.” “You have no idea,” the deputy said.

  Nick looked at Beth. “Actually, I think we do.”

  “That was very educational,” Nick called over the engine’s roar. “I just love field trips, don’t you?”

  “Is that why Detwiler stopped at the courthouse—to try to find out what evidence had been lost?”

  “Looks that way to me,” Nick said. “Try to see it from their perspective: The courthouse is underwater—evidence has been destroyed—a lot of indictments might never make it to trial, and a lot of hard-won convictions might get overturned. That means a lot of bad people back on the streets and a lot of work to do all over again. That’s got to be tough, watching years of work about to go down the drain—literally. If I were in their shoes, I might have been tempted to cut a few corners too.”

  “Is that what you think they did?”

  “I’d bet on it. I think Turlock and Detwiler saw the legal system about to break down and decided to settle a few debts on the side. If we could ID the bodies I recovered from the Lower Nine, I’ll bet we’d find that every one of them was involved in the drug trade in some way. No wonder they didn’t want them identified.”

  “Would there be some way to connect them all to Turlock and Detwiler?”

  “Maybe, through prior arrest records. Some of the victims might have been under investigation by the DEA—that would establish a definite connection. The clincher would be establishing time of death—proving that each of the men died after the hurricane. That would definitely indicate foul play—that’s what would set off all the bells and whistles with the authorities.”

  “Sounds great,” Beth said. “Can you do all that?”

  “No, I can’t. The problem is, I don’t have the bodies—and by the time they’re recovered again, there won’t be enough evidence left to establish time of death. If the DNA degrades enough, we might not even be able to identify them.”

  “Then how does it help us to know all this?”

  “Knowledge is power,” Nick said. “All we need right now is a better bargaining chip with Turlock—maybe I can construct a better bluff than I did last night. Besides, we’ve got one more stop to make. Let’s hope this next field trip is as educational as the last one.”

  Nick tried the back door—it was open. That didn’t surprise him; why lock the door of a castle when it’s surrounded by a moat? The entire neighborhood of Lakeview was underwater, inundated by a breach in the Seventeenth Street Canal half a mile to the west. This house was one of the fortunate few: Situated on a slight elevation, the water came up to the front door and then stopped; the house appeared to be sitting on the water like a barge.

  Nick could have sailed right up to the front door. After all, the entire neighborhood was abandoned—who would see? But he thought it best to exercise caution. He didn’t know why Detwiler had stopped here, and he had no idea what they might find inside.

  He pushed open the door and stepped in; Beth was right behind him. He instinctively reached for the light switch and flipped it several times, but he knew that nothing would happen. The house was already in deep shadow from the late afternoon sun. Nick switched on his flashlight and held it at shoulder level like a knife.

  He stopped and listened; he heard no sound from anywhere in the house.

  “Hello!” Beth called out. “Anybody home?”

  There was no response.

  “We’re with FEMA,” Nick offered, thinking it best not to mention a mortuary team just yet. “Sorry to bother you—we’re in the neighborhood, just checking things out. No reason to be alarmed. Anybody here?” They worked their way deeper into the house as they spoke.

  “I think we’re alone,” Beth said.

  “Looks that way.” They were in a small kitchen now. Nick pointed the flashlight around the room; it was a scene frozen in time, a three-dimensional photograph of someone else’s life.

  “It’s creepy,” Beth said. “Like visiting Hiroshima after the bomb went off.” She reached for the refrigerator door.

  “I wouldn’t,” Nick said. “The power’s been off for a week—the place stinks bad enough as it is.”

  She noticed it too. It wasn’t just the mold and mildew; it was the smell of filth that filled the air—a combination of dust, sweat, and lingering body odor.

  Nick pointed the flashlight at the kitchen sink; it was stacked high with dirty dishes, utensils, and glasses. “Somebody needs to tidy up—somebody who’s been here since the storm.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The water shut off when the power did—that means the dishes were either there before the storm or somebody’s been adding to them since. That’s a pretty big stack to let pile up, even for a guy like me. I think somebody’s been staying here—somebody who works for the government.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Nick pointed to the kitchen table—it was covered with empty brown-and-silver Mylar bags. “MREs—they’re eating the same food we are. MREs are usually government-issue—whoever it is must be connected with some local agency.”

  “Probably Detwiler,” Beth said. “He stopped here—it’s probably his house.”

  “I don’t think so—but it should be easy enough to find out. Look around for a magazine, a diploma, something with a name on it.”

  They found nothing in the kitchen. In the entryway beside the front door there was a dusty foyer table with a small lamp and a withered houseplant. Leaning against the lamp was a stack of stamped letters waiting for a postman who would never return. Beth flipped through the letters and checked the return address.

  “You were right,” she called to Nick. “It’s not Detwiler’s house.”

  Nick poked his head around the corne
r. “Who lives here?”

  “Never heard of him,” she said. “Somebody named ‘LaTourneau.’”

  45

  “Try to remember,” Beth said. “What else do you know about him?”

  “Almost nothing,” Nick said. “Jerry and I met LaTourneau the first morning after the storm—he was the only other guy working the Lower Nine. He said he was with the NOPD—I gave him a hard time about all the officers who didn’t show up for work.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Just to stay in practice, okay? Get off my back—it’s LaTourneau we need to focus on here.”

  “You say he was in the Lower Nine every day?”

  “He was the first one there in the morning and the last one back at night—a one-man rescue team.”

  “He worked alone?”

  “Yeah—except for the day he worked with me.”

  “He what?”

  “It was the day after Jerry disappeared. I needed protection, and LaTourneau was a cop—he carried a sidearm. We worked together all afternoon.”

  “Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on you.”

  “No, I asked him—I practically had to beg. He didn’t want to work with me—he wanted to keep working alone.”

  “Maybe that’s what he wanted you to think.”

  “No way. I can tell when somebody’s playing me, Beth—he genuinely didn’t want me around. So what’s the connection between LaTourneau and Detwiler? Detwiler wanted to kill me—he would have done it if he had the chance. LaTourneau had the chance all afternoon, and he had a gun—but he didn’t do it. Why not? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What else can you remember about him? You were together all afternoon—he must have told you something.”

  “He didn’t talk much.”

  “Did you ask questions? Did you volunteer anything about yourself ?”

  “I don’t need a lecture on interpersonal communication, okay?”

  “Men. If he were a woman, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “If he were a woman, he would have talked me to death. Can we get back to the subject? What’s the connection between LaTourneau and Detwiler?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “We’re not going to figure it out standing here,” Nick said. “Let’s look around the house and see what else we can find.”

  They went down the hallway to a small bedroom, only recognizable as the master because of the adjoining bath. There were two closets, one on either side of the bed; the closet on the left was empty.

  “He’s separated or divorced,” Nick said.

  “How do you know?”

  “That closet is empty—but look at all the hangers. There used to be clothes in there.”

  “Maybe his wife left before the storm and took her things with her.”

  “In an emergency you only take basics—you don’t clean out the closet.”

  Beth went into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet. “She left a few things here too. You’re right, he’s probably separated or divorced—and I don’t think he’s handling it well.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at the bed—he doesn’t even bother to make it up anymore. He doesn’t do dishes, he doesn’t dust, he doesn’t clean—he’s lost interest in the house. This isn’t home for him anymore—it’s just a place where he eats and sleeps. Maybe that’s why he works such long hours.”

  “Let’s try across the hall—maybe he’s got kids.”

  The bedroom across the hall was equal in size but very different in appearance. The bed was neatly made—the dust ruffle was crisply pleated and every throw pillow was carefully arranged. Each item on the dresser and vanity was neatly ordered too; nothing was on the floor; nothing was out of place.

  Nick pointed to a purple-and-gold pennant hanging over the bed. “LSU—she’s either a student or a fan.”

  Beth crossed to the vanity and looked at the photographs sticking out from the mirror’s frame. “Student,” she said. “Sorority photo—she’s a Pi Phi. No graduation photo, though—she’s probably still in school.” She ran her index finger across the glass top; it left a track in the thick dust like the wake of a boat. She slid open the closet door and looked inside; it was packed completely full. She checked the top dresser drawer; it was full too.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Beth said. “The girl used to live here, but not anymore—nothing’s been touched for months. It looks like she left suddenly, and she left everything behind—all her photos, all her mementos. If her parents kicked her out or if she ran away, she would have at least taken some of her clothing—but everything seems to be here. And nothing’s been moved or rearranged—it’s like someone’s trying to preserve the place as it was.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Nick said. “This isn’t a bedroom, it’s a museum. I think the girl’s dead—that’s my guess.”

  “That would explain a lot—the father’s long hours, his disinterest in the house—it might even explain the breakup of his marriage.”

  “Let’s keep looking,” Nick said.

  At the end of the hallway was the smallest of the three bedrooms, little more than a large closet. It was furnished as an all-purpose room—a combination office, storeroom, and gymnasium. In one corner there was a sagging particleboard bookshelf packed with NOPD training manuals and unmarked three-ring binders; in the center there was a rickety bench press with one red vinyl pad split open and urethane foam poking out; in the opposite corner there was a small desk piled high with unopened letters and unread magazines.

  Beth went to the desk and shuffled through the papers. She opened the center desk drawer; there was a newspaper clipping on top from the Baton Rouge Advocate. She read the headline: LSU Student Dies in Apparent Overdose.

  “Nick—look at this.”

  Nick took the article and read:

  Sherri LaTourneau, 20, a third-year pre-med student at LSU, was found dead in her apartment Thursday, the apparent victim of an accidental drug overdose. According to official sources, LaTourneau’s roommate confessed to LaTourneau’s occasional use of methamphetamines around the time of final exams. According to sheriff ’s deputies, the emaciated condition of the body indicated regular and excessive use of the drug. In response, LSU officials have issued a public statement, warning students that “the pressure to succeed does not justify dangerous and illicit practices . . .”

  Nick looked at Beth. “You said that you once thought I took meth. What made you think that?”

  “I told you: your compulsive work habits, your excessive hours, your inability to sleep—they’re classic symptoms. Why?”

  “I saw the same things in LaTourneau. He never seems to stop; he doesn’t take breaks; and I remember something else now—he told me he can’t sleep. I remember thinking, This guy’s just like me. I figured he keeps going the same way I do, but maybe not. Maybe he’s got a different method—‘better living through chemistry.’”

  “You think LaTourneau is a user?”

  “I don’t know—that doesn’t seem possible. If a man’s daughter died of a drug overdose, wouldn’t that man stay away from drugs? Wouldn’t he find them abhorrent—repugnant—just because of what they did to his daughter?”

  “Sometimes just the opposite,” Beth said. “Sometimes when a man’s daughter dies of a drug overdose, he wants to understand why. He wants to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, he wants to understand the power of the drug—so he becomes a user himself. Children of alcoholics become alcoholics; friends of suicide victims commit suicide. It’s a common psychological phenomenon—it’s entirely possible. Did you notice anything else unusual about his appearance or behavior?”

  “Like what?”

  “Extreme nervousness; dilated pupils; dizziness or confusion; dry or itchy skin—”

  “Itchy skin—that reminds me of something else he said. When I told him I work with maggots, he told me he hated maggots. He said they get under his skin—that h
e could feel them crawling around. I had no idea what he was talking about.”

  “I think I do,” Beth said. “I’ve seen it in some of my cocaine patients. They call it ‘cocaine bugs’—meth users call it ‘speed bumps.’ It’s a form of delusional parasitosis known as formication—the delusion that insects or snakes are crawling all over your skin. It’s a psychosis that can result from stimulant abuse.”

  Nick looked around the room. “If you were taking amphetamines, where would you hide your pills?”

  “If I lived alone? In the medicine cabinet; why would I bother to hide them?”

  “I’ll check his bathroom—you check the one across from the girl’s room.”

  Nick hadn’t even reached the master bath before he heard Beth’s voice: “Nick—come here. Look at this.”

  He entered the small bathroom and found Beth standing beside the medicine cabinet, ashen-faced. The medicine cabinet was empty except for one orange pill container on a center shelf. Beth was holding the wastebasket. She tilted it toward him so he could see inside; the bottom was lined with empty pill containers that looked exactly the same.

  She reached up without a word and closed the medicine cabinet door. Taped to the mirror was a photograph of Nick sitting in the john-boat. Underneath the photo, written in lipstick on the mirror, were the words: “Kill him, Daddy. He’s the worst one.”

  Nick stared at the photo. “Now, that’s what I call creepy.”

  “They’ve been using him,” Beth said. “They’ve been feeding LaTourneau names and locations of people to kill—and using his dead daughter’s voice to do it. They’re supplying him with meth too. That’s your photo, Nick—they’re telling him to kill you.”

  “I get it now,” Nick said. “They let LaTourneau do the killings for them, then when they’re through with him they just turn him over—just another good cop gone bad.”

  “Can you imagine anything more despicable? The man is undoubtedly grief-stricken over the death of his daughter—then suddenly his daughter speaks to him from beyond the grave and reveals to him where to find all the drug suppliers? LaTourneau would be more than happy to kill them—he’d think he was doing it for her.”