by BJ Bourg
Dawn shook her head. “We’ve got evidence on him. I can’t get into it, but you’re not the only reason he’s sitting down the hall from us.”
Skylar began trembling even more. “Dear Lord, I can’t believe he would be capable of something like this!”
“It’s okay.” Dawn was patient and allowed her to calm down before pressing her for information. When she thought Skylar was ready, she coaxed her on. “Go ahead and tell us why you believe he did this.”
“I think it was a warning to me.”
I looked at Dawn and then back at Skylar, puzzled.
“Why do you think that?” Dawn asked.
“I’ve been unfaithful.” She lowered her head and cried silently. “Years ago, Virgil put me through hell. He was always going to New Orleans to party with his old buddies—or so he told me. I learned the truth the night he got stabbed. That’s when he finally came clean and told me about all the women he’d slept with. Strangers—all of them. He’d meet tourists on the street and sleep with them in public places, just like we used to do.” She rubbed tears from her face and continued. “I loved him and was really worried he would die that night. He begged me to give him another chance. He promised he’d change and that he would be completely devoted to me.
“Well, I agreed to stay with him if only he’d come to church with me.” She grunted. “That was a mistake, but I would’ve never dreamed people would go to church to hookup.”
I grunted, not surprised at all, but wondering to whom she was referring.
“Go on…” Dawn coaxed.
“Well, about five years ago I suspected him of having an affair with Gretchen Masters.”
I noticed Dawn’s hand freeze in place.
“I confronted him, but he denied it. I continued suspecting something was going on and then she ended up pregnant. Nine months later, she has a baby who looks nothing like Father Masters. In fact, the child looks like Virgil’s baby picture. He swore up and down it wasn’t his child, even offered to take a paternity test.” She sighed. “I never told a soul, but I was bitter. I hated him but I loved him at the same time, so I couldn’t leave him.”
Skylar paused for a long moment, staring at her feet. “About a year ago, I started seeing this guy. He’s a farmer who works the fields behind our property. I met him in the grocery store and he was so nice to me. I began running into him more often and then I noticed him on a tractor behind my house one day. One thing led to another and—while Virgil was out on a stakeout one night—I met him at the abandoned house across the street from our property. It used to belong to Virgil’s uncle. No one ever goes there anymore, so it was a safe place to meet. After that first time, I began meeting him at his house down the road. He lives a mile from us. I was very careful to never get caught and I thought I was getting away with it, until…”
“Until what?” Dawn pressed when her voice trailed off.
“Until Kathleen’s body showed up.” Skylar looked up, her eyes glassy. “She was nailed to a cross in the exact spot where Virgil and I made love for the first time.”
Dawn nodded slowly, taking it in. “Could it have been a coincidence?”
“I thought so, until Debbie was found—in the very spot where we had sex for the second time.” Skylar lowered her head again. “I feel responsible for Debbie’s murder, because I didn’t heed the warning that was left on Kathleen’s body. It was calling me a sinner and telling me to stop what I was doing, but I didn’t. I kept seeing my boyfriend and then Debbie was killed. When I saw that reporter on the news getting arrested behind that tractor shed—our tractor shed…” She shook her head. “That’s when I knew it was Virgil.”
“Have you seen your boyfriend since Debbie was found?”
She shook her head, tears flowing down her face again. “I was too scared someone else would die. I kept wondering why he didn’t just kill me. Why go after other women who had nothing to do with anything?”
Dawn was thoughtful. “This was a barbaric way to kill someone. Why do you think he chose it?”
“I think he got the idea from Father Masters’ sermons, because Father Masters often preaches about sinners being crucified in the olden days. And then when he started preaching about adulterous women”—she shook her head—“I knew he was talking directly to me, and I think Virgil suspected it, too.”
“Why didn’t he just divorce you?” Dawn asked. “Why go through all this trouble to get you to stop cheating?”
“Oh, he’d never divorce me.” She shook her head from side to side. “He knows I’d get everything and his business would be destroyed. His life would be ruined. He told me many times he didn’t want to end up like Keenan.”
“How’s that?”
“Keenan used to be a surgeon. He had a mansion, four cars, two boats, and his own golf course, but he lost it all when his wife divorced him. He turned to alcohol and drugs and his life took a dive. He ended up homeless on the streets of New Orleans, sleeping in a box.”
“Oh,” Dawn said, “is he the homeless guy in the newspaper article above Virgil’s desk?”
Skylar nodded. “He saved Virgil’s life, so Virgil took him in and lets him do work around the house. He’s really gotten his act together and he wants to go back to being a doctor, but his mind isn’t what it used to be. I think his former drug use has caused some permanent brain damage.”
Dawn continued questioning Skylar for several minutes, getting more details about her relationship with the farmer and the goings-on at the church, and then we stepped out into the hallway.
“What do you think?” Dawn asked.
I sighed. “How do we argue with the DNA results and this new information?”
“That’s what I thought.”
I followed Dawn back into the conference room and she told Skylar we would be holding the Tahoe as evidence. “Do you need a ride back home?”
Skylar shook her head. “I’ll call Keenan to come get me.”
CHAPTER 55
I flipped the switch to activate the audio and video recorder before Dawn and I stepped into the room with Virgil. He looked up and lifted his hands in objection as Rachael and Warren stepped out.
“I told them I wanted to see Skylar, but they said I couldn’t. What’s going on here?”
I placed my file folder on the floor near my chair and took the seat directly across from him. Dawn sat to my left.
“We need to talk some more about Kathleen Bertrand and Debbie Brister,” I began.
“I told you everything I know.” He said it with finality.
“Well, some things have come up that we need to discuss.” I placed my notebook on the desk in front of me and leaned back. “You know the drill…can you start by telling us where you were when Kathleen disappeared?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t know when she disappeared.”
I gave him the date and time ranges, and he asked if he could refer to his phone. I nodded and, once he did, he ran through his activities for the entire week. When I asked if he had witnesses who could verify the information he’d provided, he just looked up with a scowl on his face.
“I didn’t know I’d need to provide proof of every move I made…but I’m sure Skylar and Keenan can verify most of it.”
“What about when Debbie disappeared?”
He accessed the calendar on his phone and began listing everything he did beginning on the day she disappeared up until yesterday, and it included the time we visited his house. It all sounded legit, but he’d left out the parts where he’d spat in Kathleen’s and Debbie’s faces. If he expected us to believe he didn’t kill the women, he’d have to offer up an explanation about how his saliva got on their faces.
“Did you speak to Kathleen at church on the night she disappeared?”
He shrugged. “I might have.”
“What about Debbie?”
“I don’t usually speak to Debbie. I might’ve spoken to Gerard, but I can’t be sure.”
“Is there a reason wh
y your saliva would’ve ended up on their faces?”
I saw his expression fall and his color drain. He used to be a detective. He knew the implication of such evidence—he just wasn’t sure if I was bluffing or not.
“If my saliva’s on their faces, someone planted it.”
I smiled wryly. “You do know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”
“From where I’m sitting, what you’re saying is ridiculous.”
I opened my mouth to respond when a sharp knock sounded on the door to the interview room. Dawn and I exchanged glances. Every deputy in the sheriff’s office knew we were in with the crucifix murder suspect, so if they were knocking, it had to be important.
I asked Virgil to excuse us and we stepped out into the hallway. Sheriff Chiasson was waiting for us.
“The fellow who came to pick up Skylar—a Keenan Tipton—is demanding to speak with you. He says he’s been in contact with Virgil’s attorney and they are demanding that all interrogations cease.”
I handed the sheriff my investigative file and Dawn and I headed for the front lobby, which was on the opposite side of the building from the detective bureau. Warren was waiting with Skylar and Keenan. Keenan was pacing back and forth in the lobby and he whirled around when I opened the door.
“Detective, you’ve got to release Virgil,” he pleaded. “I swear to you, he didn’t do this. I know this man better than anyone and he would never hurt an innocent person.”
I recognized Keenan from church. He had been the guy sitting next to Virgil when Dawn and I visited on Sunday night. His beady eyes were swollen, as though he had been crying.
“The sheriff said you were on the phone with his lawyer.”
Keenan sighed. “I called for him, but he didn’t answer. I’m sorry for lying to your sheriff, but I had to speak with you immediately. Virgil Brunner is a decent man—a law-abiding man. Please, you’ve got to believe me when I say he didn’t do this.”
“How do you know he didn’t do this?” I challenged.
“Because I’m with him every single day. If he would’ve been involved in something like this, I would certainly know about it.”
Skylar reached out and took Keenan by the arm. “Come on, Keen,” she said soothingly. “Let’s go home and allow them to do their jobs.”
Keenan turned slowly to fix Skylar with a knowing glare. “You—it was you who accused him of this, wasn’t it?”
“No, they have their own evidence. Look, if Virgil didn’t do it, they’ll release him tonight.” She turned toward me and nodded. “Isn’t that right, Detective Carter?”
“It’s true that he’s not under arrest,” I admitted. “Once we finish interviewing him we’ll know more.”
Keenan sighed deeply. “Thank God! I thought he was under arrest.”
“You know, if you believe you have some information that would exonerate Virgil, I want to hear it.” I knew the importance of pinning defense witnesses down early, and I wanted to hear everything Keenan had to say and I wanted it on record. That way, if we ended up arresting Virgil—and I was certain it was about to happen—Keenan couldn’t modify his story later to try and help his boss and friend. “Just hang out here in the lobby and we’ll be with you as soon as we finish with Virgil.”
Keenan nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I appreciate it.”
Skylar grumbled under her breath. She didn’t seem happy, but she plopped into a chair to wait.
I asked Warren if he could keep an eye on Skylar and Keenan, and he grumbled even more than Skylar did, cursing good-naturedly about being reduced to a babysitter.
“He’s a loyal little soldier, isn’t he?” Dawn said about Keenan as we made our way back to the interview room. “I can’t wait to hear what he’s got to say.”
“If he tries to lie for Virgil, it’ll be easy to trip him up.”
CHAPTER 56
The sheriff handed me the case file and Dawn and I reclaimed our seats in the interview room. I apologized to Virgil and asked if he remembered where we were.
“I do.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “You were apologizing for wasting my time.”
I gently placed the case file on the desk in front of me and rested my hands on it. “Look, you were a detective at one time, so I’m going to shoot straight with you. We’ve got direct evidence that links you to both victims.”
“Because I investigated them?” He scoffed. “I work cases on hundreds of people every year. That doesn’t make me responsible if something bad happens to them.”
I decided to change gears on him.
“Can I trust that you’re going to be completely honest with me—as I’ve been with you—or should I assume you’re going to play cat and mouse games all night?”
“I’m not playing any games. I’ve been honest about everything and I’ll continue to be honest.”
“Even when it comes to your daughter?”
He scowled. “Skylar and I don’t have any children. We’ve tried for years, but one of us can’t get our shit together down there.”
“I didn’t say anything about Skylar,” I said, noting what he did there. “I’m asking about your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.” His eyes were level as he met my gaze, and I knew right then he was too good of a liar to trust.
“Then you won’t mind giving me a sample of your DNA to compare against Gretchen Masters’ brown-haired daughter?”
Virgil’s face fell just a little. “I’m not consenting to anything.”
“You don’t have to.” I reached into the case file and pulled out the photographs I’d taken of the yellow envelopes we’d recovered from Joey and Gerard. I spread them out on the table. “Do you recognize these?”
He glanced at them and shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”
“We recovered your DNA from the lick-and-seal part of both envelopes.” I paused to let that information sink in. “And then we compared it to DNA evidence we recovered from the victims, and it was a match.”
Virgil stared at me for a long moment. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me. Your DNA is on the dead victims.”
“Is this a bluff?” he asked. “Some kind of bait?”
I shook my head. “It’s as real as it gets.”
“That’s impossible.” He folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re telling the truth, someone planted my DNA because I didn’t do anything to either of those women.”
“Really?” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the table. “Where’d you and your wife have sex for the first time?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“Just answer the question.”
“That’s all I’m saying about it.”
I dug in the file folder again and flipped through the crime scene photos from 1711 Plymouth Highway until I found one depicting the bayou behind where we’d located Kathleen Bertrand’s body. I pulled it out and placed it on the desk in front of Virgil.
“Does this jog any memories?” I asked.
“What’s that got to do with this case?” Virgil was clearly agitated.
“This is where we found Kathleen Bertrand.” I pulled out a photo of the tractor shed where we’d found Debbie Brister, and plopped that one on top of the last photograph. “And this is where we found Debbie Brister—the exact spot you and Skylar had sex for the second time.”
Virgil’s expression was quite telling—he knew he was screwed.
“Look, if what you’re saying is true—and I still think you’re bluffing—I can’t explain the locations or the DNA, but I guarantee you I had nothing to do with any of it.”
“I’d love to believe you,” I said, “but the evidence is too damning.”
Dawn and I sat and watched as Virgil lifted each picture and studied it, as though he were looking for a way out of his predicament through the images. When he lifted the picture of the envelope we’d recovered from Joey, his brow furrowed and he pulled the picture close. Scowling, he l
ooked up at me and asked if I had a digital copy of the photograph.
“Sure,” I said simply.
“Can I see it?”
I pulled the flash drive out of the file folder and shoved it into the USB port on the desktop computer. Once it was up, I scrolled through the photos until I found the one he was looking at. “Here it is,” I said, turning the monitor so he could view it.
“Enlarge the signature across the evidence tape—please.”
When I did, he gasped and stabbed at the monitor. “That’s not my signature!”
I forced a chuckle. “Of course it’s not your signature. It’s also not your DNA and it’s not where you and Skylar had sex.”
“No, it is where we had sex, but that’s not my signature, it’s not my DNA, and it’s not my handwriting on the front of the envelope. Granted, it’s a good forgery attempt, but it’s not my handwriting.” He leaned back and nodded his head vigorously. “Take my DNA and handwriting samples and test them—you’ll discover you’ve got the wrong guy.”
He seemed so confident that I found myself doubting our evidence. While I hadn’t suspected him initially, I didn’t know how we could explain away the mountain of evidence we now possessed. “You said you sealed the envelopes, secured them with evidence tape, and then hand-delivered them to the clients. How on earth is it not your DNA and handwriting?”
“I said I had them hand-delivered, not that I did it personally.”
“You expect me to believe someone switched envelopes and recreated your method of sealing them? To what end? Why would someone go through all that trouble to frame you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but it wasn’t me.”
I leaned back, thoughtful. What if they weren’t trying to frame him? What if they simply wanted to see what was inside of the envelope? The killer had no clue we would eventually end up with the envelopes, so there was no reason to try and frame Virgil. In fact, if what Virgil was saying was true, we’d recovered the killer’s DNA from the envelope, not Virgil’s.
“We’ll need your DNA and I’m holding you until the results come back,” I said. “In the meantime, I need to know who delivered those envelopes.”