by BJ Bourg
“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 over 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…
“Get to your feet, big boy,” said the man behind him.
Following the man’s orders, Orville stood and winced in pain as the man jerked his arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists together. “Now get your ass in the house,” the man said.
Orville walked inside, allowing himself to be shoved through to the living room, where his parents and brother were seated on the sofa, all of them also handcuffed. His handler pushed him into the lounge chair and stood back, surveying the group.
“What the hell do you want?” Frank Simoneaux asked. “Why are you in my house?”
“Dad,” Orville cautioned. “Go easy.”
“To hell with that! This is my house and they have no right
to be in here.”
One of the men took his leafy headgear off and placed it on the coffee table. He then shrugged out of his ghillie suit and removed an envelope from inside his coveralls, held it so Frank could see. “We’re with the FBI and this is a warrant to search the premises.”
“Search? For what? My son was a victim. We’re all victims!” Frank’s face was the color of blood roses. “I demand that y’all leave my house right this moment!”
The man, whom Orville took to be the leader of the group, sat on the coffee table in front of Frank and folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Simoneaux, do you remember your arrest in North Carolina for violating the Lacey Act?”
“That was years ago.”
“That was a big alligator you killed, wasn’t it?” The man shot his thumb toward Orville and Quentin. “It seems your boys are taking over the family business.”
“My boys had nothing to do with what happened in North Carolina,” Frank said in a low voice. “I was a kid back then. I didn’t know any better.”
Orville frowned, feeling bad for his dad. He’d heard the story of how his dad had taken up with an alligator hunter in North Carolina when he got out of the military. His dad hadn’t realized it, but the alligator hunter was a fraud, and they ended up selling illegally harvested alligators to undercover federal agents.
Two men appeared from the back rooms of the house carrying shotguns and rifles. “Look what we found, Mule.”
The leader nodded his head. “That’s what we thought we’d find. Frank, you’re under arrest for being a felon in possession of a firearm.”
Orville gasped. “My dad can’t go to jail at his age!”
“But I got my rights back,” Frank protested. “It’s been over thirty years since that arrest.”
“You committed the felony in North Carolina,” Mule said, “where they never restore gun rights for felons. Sorry, but you’re going to prison.”
Hearing his mom cry, Orville turned to Mule. “But why’d y’all come here? Why target my dad? With all the criminals out there—the murderers and drug dealers—why come after an old man who’s not hurting anyone? He hasn’t done anything wrong. It was Quentin and me and Norris…no one else.”
“Your dad put a big bull’s eye on his forehead when he made that statement to the news reporters.” Mule turned to a man on his left. “Taz, do you remember what he said to the press?”
Orville grunted when Taz pulled out a newspaper clipping with a picture of his dad holding a double-barreled shotgun. I knew that was a bad idea, he thought.
“Yep,” Taz said. “I remember. The old man said he’d be waiting with his shotgun and would shove both barrels up the killer’s ass if he stepped foot in his swamps again.”
“This is that shotgun,” said one of the other agents, holding up the same shotgun that had appeared in the picture.
Orville’s heart raced in his chest. He had to do something. He couldn’t just let his dad go to jail.
“Either you spend the last of your good years in prison, Mr. Simoneaux,” Mule said, “or you work off the charges.”
“He’ll work off the charges,” Orville blurted out. “Just name your price.”
“There’s no price,” Mule said. “This isn’t a bribe. It’s an undercover operation.”
Frank looked at Orville and glowered. Orville knew his dad was like a wild animal and couldn’t survive in a cage. He’d die within a year. He stared earnestly as his dad and mouthed, Do it!
Frank’s gaze was hard and steady for a long moment, but tears came to Orville’s eyes and he saw the hard lines on his dad’s face soften. “Please, Dad,” he said, “just do it. For all of our sakes, just help them out.”
“Okay,” Frank said, his voice revealing his resignation. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Just don’t mess with my family. They only do what I tell them to do.”
“I’m authorized by the federal prosecutor to make this arrangement,” Mule said, “and I’ll get it in writing at the appropriate time. All we need from you is to allow us to use your home as a base camp while we conduct operations on your property and the property of Wellman Boudreaux.”
“That’s it?” Frank asked.
“That’s basically it,” Mule said.
Orville’s brow furrowed. “What kind of operations?”
Taz smiled. “That would be confidential.”
“What about my family?” Frank asked. “What are we supposed to do while y’all take over my house? We’ve got no place to go.”
“We’ll need you guys to stay here, acting normal and making things look normal,” Mule explained. “I want you guys coming and going as you normally would. Pretend we’re not even here.”
Orville’s mind raced. “Are y’all hunting the man who killed my brother?”
Mule was thoughtful and Orville felt a chill reverberate up and down his spine as the man turned black eyes in his direction. “Didn’t Taz just tell you it was confidential?”
Orville didn’t want to cause any problems with these guys because they looked like they meant business, so he quickly apologized and looked away from Mule’s glare.
“Now, we’ll need some assurances that you won’t try anything foolish,” Mule said. “Or the deal’s off.”
“There’ll be no trouble from us,” Frank said. “And if y’all are really hunting down my son’s killer, we’ll give y’all all the help you need.”
“Just to be sure, you’ll have to remain here in the house under guard while the rest of your family goes about their daily lives.” Mule turned back to Orville. “And if any of you do anything to jeopardize our operation, your dad goes to prison for the rest of his short years.”
Orville gulped and shook his head. “We won’t do anything to jeopardize the operation. I swear it.”
That seemed to satisfy Mule and he waved his hand in the air. “Release them and let them go about their business. Remember, Frank, we want your family to look as natural as possible.”
“What about their guns?” asked a short and stout man with a semi-automatic rifle slung across his chest.
“Lock them up until we’re done here,” Mule said. The man nodded and started to turn away, but Mule stopped him. “Oh, and Pit Bull, I want you guarding the old man.”
CHAPTER 29
London Carter’s home
I awakened at seven, an hour later than usual. After showering and dressing into my drab green coveralls, I did what Doctor Fitch was doing that morning—I headed off to church. Only, my church was the shooting range and my Bible was my data book.
After setting up a hostage rescue target at one hundred yards, I stretched out behind my rifle and attained proper eye relief, my cheek resting comfortably on the stock with the butt of the rifle pulled snuggly into my shoulder. My left leg was extended in a straight line behind my rifle and my right leg was cocked slightly to lift my chest from the ground, reducing the amount of heartbeat I saw in my crosshairs.
I took a deep breath and my crosshairs fell slightly, just below the tip of the bad guy’s nose. I exhaled slowly until I reached my respiratory pause, at which point the crosshairs settled naturally on my desired point of aim. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger and the rifle bucked in my hand. Almost instantly, I bolted another round into the chamber and peered through the scope, ready for a follow-up shot if necessary.
I knew without looking that my cold bore shot was dead-on, like it was every time I took that shot. I’d been doing the job for so long that I could call every shot I took. The exact position of my crosshairs at the very moment the shot broke was burned into my brain like a photograph, and I knew it had drilled the hostage taker right through the tip of the nose. Had he been an actual human, he would’ve been dead instantly—like Norris and Joyce. I frowned. Who’s killing people in my parish?
I retrieved my spent casing from the ground and tucked it into the breast pocket of my coveralls. I’d taught all of my snipers to be like ghosts, coming and going
without leaving a trace that they were there, and that included recovering every spent casing they fired. Not only did we need it for court purposes, but we didn’t want to leave litter behind. A question suddenly occurred to me. Why’d the sniper take his spent casing with him? Had he also been trained to be a ghost and it was force of habit, or did he possess a criminal mind and removed it because he knew it could be traced back to his rifle? Whatever the reason, we were dealing with a cunning and dangerous foe.
As I pondered the details of the case, I felt a sense of déjà vu come over me. It had been a little over a year ago that my fellow deputies had come under attack from a mystery sniper, and the carnage had lasted longer than any of us had ever imagined. I was the first to admit I was better at sniper work than investigations, so I often wondered if a more seasoned detective might have been able to pick up on some of the clues earlier on. What if I’d been able to solve the case sooner? How many lives would I have saved? Can I catch this killer before others have to die?
A gust of wind rustled the brown hair on my forehead and I realized I’d been staring blindly through my scope. I closed my eyes and cleared my head. It took everything in me to push the case out of my mind and concentrate on training. The image of that poor girl’s face kept creeping into my thoughts and I wanted to know who did that to her. I wanted her killer’s head quartered by the posts of my cross-hairs, but in order to be ready for the day I might meet her killer, I needed to finish my training. I needed to be sharp.
Now that I’d verified my cold bore shot, it was time to put some rounds downrange. I’d missed part of Thursday’s training, so I had a bit of catching up to do. Being a sniper leader didn’t mean I got to take it easy from time to time—it meant I had to be harder on myself than I was on anyone else and I had to be more prepared than the snipers I supervised. To lead by example was not a slogan for me, but a way of life, so I spent the next four hours running myself through drill after drill.