by DiAnn Mills
“She could have been killed. Maybe this will scare off the volunteers. Have them do their community work at schools and hospitals instead of interfering with a bad guy’s plan or an investigation. I’ve never been in favor of them patrolling the airport perimeter. Maybe those who are professionally trained law enforcement, but not those who are unskilled in weaponry.”
Ric nodded. “I see where you’re coming from, but it’s a respected program, and the volunteers consider it their civic duty. They’re subjected to thorough background checks and are required to take a mounted self-defense course.”
“All I’m saying is we’ve seen the damage untrained people can do, destroying critical evidence that allows the bad guys to continue. I hope this isn’t another one of those messes.”
“Mr. Cynical, I’m right there with you,” Ric said. “The 911 operator kept her on the line until the police arrived.”
“My gut doesn’t like any of this.”
“My concern is the military-grade drone and the payload.”
Alex swung a look at his dark-skinned partner, a man always in tune with the latest technology. “What are your initial thoughts, other than we need eyes on it ASAP?”
“Ask me after I’ve dismantled it and we’re still breathing air.”
Alex glanced at his phone’s GPS map for the exit road off FM 1960. Couldn’t get there fast enough. Their information set the quadcopter apart from a citizen’s toy. He turned his Jeep right onto the farm road and in less than a quarter mile made another right to where several police cars were parked along a wooded area. A dark-haired woman stood beside a horse and a police officer. The woman was trim, jean-clad, wearing boots and a button-down light-green shirt. A yellow Lab lay at her side. She matched the description of the woman who’d found the body. “Let’s get a history on her. What’s her name?”
“Stacy Broussard, a veterinarian.”
“Is she independent, or does she work for someone?”
“Independent. Owner of Pet Support Veterinary Clinic on the northwest side of town. Doctor of veterinary medicine. Graduated from A&M College of Veterinary Medicine and Biomedical Sciences. A member of American Veterinary Medical Association and the Texas Veterinary Medical Association. I’d give you the acronyms, but you wouldn’t remember them.”
Ric’s comment took the heat off the pressure. “Good call.”
The two exited the car and approached the officer, who was talking with the woman. Heat and humidity assaulted them, typical Houston weather. Those working the crime scene must be miserable, and the woman who’d found the body had been there longer than all of them.
“Lead out, bro,” Ric said. “I’ll want to think through her answers.”
Alex tossed him a grin despite the grave situation. “You mean form a theory that will most likely be different from mine.” A few feet more, he took the initiative and stuck out his hand to the officer. “I’m FBI Special Agent Alex LeBlanc, and this is Special Agent Ric Price from the domestic terrorism division. HPD requested our assistance.”
The officer introduced himself and Dr. Stacy Broussard. Her pale face told Alex she didn’t find dead bodies often.
“I’m sorry your morning ride met up with a tragedy,” Alex said. “We understand you discovered the body and the quadcopter.”
He met cautious dark-blue eyes. “Yes, sir. And the dog here beside me.”
He gave the Lab a momentary glance and noted the dog had an injured paw. “Once we’ve examined the crime site, we’d like to ask a few questions.”
She glanced away. Fear or guilt? Alex shook off his suspicions. Not every woman was like the last one he got involved with.
“I have appointments at my animal clinic, and the officer has already interviewed me. Plus, this dog needs attention.”
Alex plastered on his agent smile. “I understand, ma’am, but we have a serious situation here.”
She tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. Sweat beaded on her face, and her shirt was damp. “You’re right. But I didn’t witness a thing. Sadly, a man’s dead, and I have no idea why.”
“Sometimes additional questions can generate new evidence, especially when the mind wants to block out what really happened, such as what you’ve encountered today.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m not in shock, Agent LeBlanc. My mind is working perfectly—I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to sound uncooperative.”
“The heat doesn’t help.”
“No, sir.”
“We understand, and we’ll do our best not to keep you waiting very long.” He turned to the officer. “Can you keep Dr. Broussard company for a few minutes?”
Alex and Ric followed a narrow path into the thick brush and woods leading to a clearing where officers were sweeping the crime scene. Two sets of parallel fencing caught Alex’s attention: one near the road and the second separating the airport property. The airport rangers rode between the two. Beyond the tree line was a field leading to the airport with a clear view of IAH’s north side.
An officer stood by the body. No doubt the medical examiner was en route. As tragic as a murder could be, his and Ric’s focus had to be on dismantling the drone.
They pulled on non-latex gloves and bent to the quadcopter still caught in the bushes. Ric rested his hand on his knee while visually scrutinizing it. “There’s a serial number.”
Alex snapped a pic with his phone and sent it to the FIG—Field Intelligence Group—for the drone’s origin.
In less than six minutes, Ric had taken the device apart. “GPS controlled, touch screen module, small brushless motors, modular for easy assembly, carbon fiber blades, and other than the laser, no additional weaponry.”
Definitely not the type kids flew in the park or Amazon used to deliver orders. Alex continued to snap pics while scenarios played out of what might have happened this morning. At this point, it looked like the dead man stopped a drone.
Ric pointed to the quadcopter with his pen. “The device has a snap-in modular design, wirelessly remote. Camera was destroyed when it crashed.”
“Can it be repaired? It might give investigators a visual of what happened.”
“Irreparable.”
A text flew into Alex’s phone. “The FIG ran the serial number. The Army reported it stolen three months ago. I’ll request a full rundown.”
“Which lends credence to the theory that a terrorist is behind this,” Ric said.
Alex wanted details—now. “Failing is not listed in a terrorist’s portfolio.” He pointed to the laser capable of blinding a pilot. “Given the proximity to the north runway, this had the ability to damage an aircraft on its final launch.” He peered at the three jagged bullet holes that had penetrated the quadcopter. “From the trajectory, whoever fired at the device was at a slight angle, about twenty feet below it. Looks like a 9mm.”
“Like someone was trying to bring it down.”
Alex stood and approached the officer by the body. Ric followed. “Do you know the type of bullet that killed this man?”
“A 9mm.”
“Was a gun found near the body?”
“Nothing recovered yet.” The officer gestured to a single boot print near the body. “From the size, it doesn’t match the victim or the woman.”
Alex knelt beside the print, snapping pics. Questions fired in his mind like a repeater. “Looks like a size 12, maybe 13. Had to be at least one more person in the clearing. Speculating here, but the man could have been killed to avoid identifying the drone operator.” His gaze followed a path leading out of the clearing that had been swept with brush, eliminating footprints. He moved around the area, maneuvering behind bushes and trees, studying every angle of the crime, and looking for the weapon. Finding nothing, he returned to Ric and the officer.
“The motorcycle has blood spatters. Most likely the victim’s, but if we’re lucky, it’s the third party’s,” Ric said. “Officer, did you run the plates?”
“Yes. It belongs to the victim, Todd Ho
we.”
Alex scanned the scene, busy with law enforcement activity. “The victim rode his motorcycle through the gate and between the fencing in a restricted area. Not an impromptu venture on a Saturday morning.”
“Unknowns and variables,” Ric said. “Did the shots ending the drone’s mission stop a potential plane crash?”
Alex blew out his apprehension for the innocent lives that could be caught in the crosshairs of a madman. Houston ranked second in laser strikes against aircraft. “The potential has me concerned about the safety of others.” His mind centered on both crimes: the murder and the quadcopter aimed at the airport runway.
“We’ve put out enough material to combat those who claim ignorance.” Since 2015, the FAA required drone registration for those over .55 pounds . . . but this was military grade.
“Drone operators aren’t any better than snipers. No excuse for violators. This is our thirteenth laser target case this month.”
“Threat is imminent until we catch who’s behind it. My guess is an extremist militia group. Whoever’s in charge didn’t adhere to FAA regulations, which means our bad guy is looking at state and federal charges of murder and laser pointer violations. But I doubt he cares.”
Ric walked back to the drone and picked it up. “Interesting to see what a fingerprint sweep from HPD shows.”
“We’ve already lifted prints from the device,” an officer said.
“Good. I’ll place it in our vehicle,” Ric said.
Alex stared at the path leading to the parked vehicles. “I want to know what happened here. What connects a dead man, a dog, a quadcopter, and a motorcycle?” Dr. Stacy Broussard might have more information, even if she wasn’t aware.
“What’s running through your head?”
“Do you think our airport ranger is involved?”
“Bro, why would she report the crime and stick around to talk to the police?”
“I haven’t forgotten my last case dealing with a woman. I want every base covered.”
STACY REPEATED EVERY DETAIL she could recall prior to and after discovering the body. Special Agent Alex LeBlanc posed countless questions, often repeating himself by rephrasing the query. Though she didn’t mind looking at his all-American chiseled appearance and brown, nut-shaped eyes, she grew tired of the redundancy. The past hour in the humidity-filled air woven with Special Agent LeBlanc’s questions, calls from animal owners requesting appointments, and an injured dog that required attention had readjusted her tolerance level. The image of the dead man refused to leave her alone. He surely had family and friends who’d mourn his passing.
He studied her. “Are you okay? Would you like to see a doctor?”
She shook her head. “How much longer will we be here?”
“A few minutes.”
“All right.”
“What was your first reaction when you rode into the clearing?”
She held her hand like a stop sign. “Sir, you’ve asked me the same thing three times. I don’t know the man. Neither have I seen him before or heard his name.”
“Do you ride this trail often?”
“This is the last time I’ll answer that question. I’m sorry to sound uncooperative, but this has been the worst day of my life. I ride once a week for the airport rangers on Saturday mornings. As I stated earlier, I begin at six and ride until eight. The difference today is my companions had prior commitments, and I chose to complete my volunteer work alone.”
“Which could have gotten you killed.”
“My friends included, had they been here.” Irritation capped her tone, and she no longer cared.
“I’d like their names, please.” He’d run the information through the FIG to ensure her story was accurate.
“You don’t believe me?”
“This is standard procedure for an investigation.”
“Okay.” She gave him the names of the two absent volunteers.
“Do you carry a concealed weapon?”
“I don’t have a CHL, and we’re not permitted to have a firearm in our possession while on duty, only a pocketknife.” She pulled it from her jean pocket and showed it to him.
“We’d like to borrow it.”
“Don’t cut yourself.” She bit her tongue to keep from releasing more sarcasm. “It means a lot to me, so I’d like it returned.”
He nodded. “I’ve succeeded in angering you, Dr. Broussard.”
She breathed out her weariness. “Yes, you have. Do you have any new questions?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No. A ticket for speeding about three years ago.”
“Have you served in the military?”
“No.”
“Involved in an antigovernment organization?”
“No.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“I repeat. No.” She rubbed her face, trying to see the crime from his viewpoint.
“Did you see anyone?”
She blew out frustration instead of the words she’d like to use. “Look, I understand your questions are required. But explain to me why I report a crime, and you treat me as though I’m a criminal.”
He frowned. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Dr. Broussard. The questions are to gather information while the crime is fresh in your mind.”
Stacy handed him a business card. “Don’t forget to return my pocketknife. It was a gift from my dad.” She patted the dog’s head. “She doesn’t have a collar, and I assume she belongs to the deceased. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take her with me. She’ll be at my clinic.”
“We have a kennel to house the dog.”
“She needs medical care, and I doubt she can provide much evidence.” She swallowed the mixed emotions tempting her to lose control. “I’ll make sure her wounds are bandaged and look for an identification microchip. If I find one, I’ll contact you.” A media van parked across the road diverted her attention. She groaned. “I’m not talking to them.”
He studied the cameraman and a woman walking their way. “No reason to talk to reporters. We’ll make sure our media coordinator releases an accurate report.” He bent to pat the injured dog, exposed far too long in the heat with a wounded paw. “I appreciate your help this morning.”
That was a canned response. “Please give my condolences to the victim’s family.” She smiled at the helpful officer holding her horse’s reins and hoisted herself into the saddle. Normally she worked hard to ensure everyone was happy and at peace with the world. But not this morning.
“Dr. Broussard.”
What now? Her blood type? She pulled the mare to a halt and waited.
“I’m sorry for what you experienced this morning and my insensitive interview.” He paused. “My mama didn’t raise me to be rude.” His voice slid to a familiar lilt.
“Do I hear Cajun?” Did he think this made his crude mannerisms acceptable? “Certainly in the name.”
“A Berry boy.” He was from New Iberia. A dimple deepened. “And you?”
“Southeast of Lake Charles.”
“A McNeese grad?”
“Is there any other?” When he frowned, she figured him out. “Spoken like a true ULL fan.”
“Played football for them. Do you have family there?”
“All of them,” she said.
“Me too. Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
His eyes, with a hint of earthen mystery, probably got him whatever he wanted. She had cousins who thought they could turn on the charm and melt any female. “Maybe,” she said. “Depends if you stay with the dog until I return in about ten minutes. The stables are at the corner of Richey and Aldine Westfield. Have a nice day, Agent LeBlanc.”
“I suggest you reconsider your volunteer work as an airport ranger. As proven today, your life could be in danger.”
She was committed to the program. “I can take care of myself without FBI interference.” She trotted the mare toward the road with the determination to never talk to him agai
n—except to retrieve the sweet Lab.
WHITT CONNECTED THE JUMPER CABLES to the positive and negative posts of the dead battery. Temperatures had risen in the garage to nearly ninety degrees, and that was with a fan, but Dad hadn’t thrown the wrench or cursed and given up. He’d poured half a can of Coke over the battery’s rust and eliminated much of the corrosion, and still the car refused to start. Dad attempted to engage the engine again, but it was dead.
“You need a new battery,” Whitt said, hoping his suggestion wouldn’t send Dad off the deep end. “I’ll walk to Walmart and buy it.”
“I’m trying to make this one last as long as possible.” Dad stood back, his bare belly hanging over his jeans. “Rent’s past due. Ain’t nothing in the house to eat either. No way for my son to live.” He stared at Whitt, his eyes free of the redness associated with alcohol and drugs. “Promise me you’ll make something of yourself.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Whitt wanted to believe Dad cared, and right now he showed genuine concern. But the facts proved otherwise.
He adjusted the clamps on the battery posts. “Want to crank ’er up and see if the blasted car starts? You might have the magic touch.”
Whitt opened the door with a squeak and twisted the key. Nothing. Not a single turnover. If it had started, Dad would be in a decent mood until tonight. . . .
“What am I missing, Whitt? You’re the genius.” Dad chuckled. “Who would ever have thought I’d father a kid with a higher IQ than both of his parents.”
Most times he considered his intelligence a curse. “Oh, you’re smart, Dad.” He stepped from the car. “Could it be the alternator?”
“Nothing wrong with it. Already checked.”
Whitt examined the wires to ensure they were tight. “I think we don’t have any choice but to replace it.”
“I need money.” He glared at Whitt. “You have it, and this car won’t start without a new battery.”
He hesitated. Giving Dad money satisfied him for a little while. If Whitt thought he’d stop drinking, he’d give him every penny in his bank account.
“You do real good working for Miss Stacy, so hand it over.” His face reddened when Whitt just stood there.