by Jim Riley
"Maybe we should call backup and seal all the exits to the place. There are only four ways out, unless I missed one."
d'Iberville did not agree.
“We can handle this. Besides, I want to be the one who nabs this scumbag."
The two uniforms stayed quiet, knowing that being listed as the arresting officer of Dalton would catapult John’s career. They did not know if his behavior was also from the rush of the early morning air. They watched as the driver stepped out of the truck and stood beside it. He peered into the darkness, but with the blanket of clouds could not see.
The man walked to the front of the truck. Even though d'Iberville could not make out the man's identity, he could tell that he was holding something in one hand.
"What is that?" He asked for either of his companions to answer.
One of them pointed.
"Looks like a flower."
d'Iberville grinned. Every night for the last three nights, someone had placed a yellow rose on Juliette’s grave. Last night, the caretaker identified that person as Senator Dalton Bridgestone.
"It’s him. We just have to be patient. Let's wait until he gets to the grave."
He pointed at a uniform. "You run directly to his vehicle when we go."
Then he pointed at the other. "You back me up when I take him down."
The uniform nodded, knowing that he and his partner would only be footnotes in the arrest record. All the glory would be attributed to John d'Iberville.
The driver walked through the cemetery to the grade. About fifty yards separated him from his destination. Then d'Iberville heard something that made his skin crawl. One officer sneezed. d'Iberville glared at him.
"Sorry," the man whispered.
The driver stopped. To John’s disappointment, he went back through the grounds and got in the truck. He started the vehicle and turned it sideways on the path, its front end pointing at the grave.
The high beams lit up the area around the grave site and a few yards beyond it. The rays did not penetrate the cover of the ligustrum.
Regardless, d'Iberville and the others immediately dropped to a prone position, unable to see through the leaves to the driver. The truck remained in position three or four minutes. Then it turned in alignment with the pavement.
d'Iberville peeked out from his nest and watch the vehicle pull away. The detective cursed out loud, knowing with the windows up, the driver could not hear him.
"Do you want to call for backup now?" One uniform asked.
d'Iberville continued to stare at the moving truck.
"No. Not yet. I think he’s nervous, but I don't believe he’s leaving. If he was, he would have gone toward the nearest exit. Let's give him a minute."
d'Iberville watched the red pickup circle the entire graveyard.. For a few minutes, it was directly behind the trio. d'Iberville was grateful that he had parked his unmarked call next to the chapel, concealed among the hearses. The two uniform were dropped off and had no vehicle there that d’Iberville could detect.
For more than ten minutes, the driver circled around the cemetery. Then he pulled up to the same spot where he had previously parked. d'Iberville held his breath when the driver exited again. He glared at the two uniforms and held his finger to his lips. They received the message quietly, but clearly. One more mistake and both of them would hand out parking tickets for the remainder of their short careers.
d'Iberville watched the figure close near the grave, stopping every three steps to look around and listen. Finally, when the driver reached within ten feet of Juliette's grave, he abandoned caution. He stepped forward, knelt and placed a yellow rose at the head of the plot.
“Now,” d'Iberville yelled. “Hold it! Police! Drop to the ground!”
d'Iberville and the two officers burst from the grove of ligustrum. The driver jerked his head up and panicked. He leaped up and sprinted toward the red truck. He had a fifty–yard head start, and he was in better shape than the two uniforms. He reached the truck before John could close the gap.
One officer stopped, knelt and opened fire at the vehicle. His bullets struck the rear passenger seat. d'Iberville cursed again. He took a standing shooter’s position and fired two shots in rapid succession.
The truck sped up, then veered off the pavement. It crashed into a live oak only twenty yards from the exit. d'Iberville shouted into his radio, his adrenaline at an all-time high.
“Shots fired. Shots fired. Backup required at the Red Stick Cemetery at the corner of Airline and Florida. Shots fired. Send backup.”
d'Iberville and the two deputies sprinted toward the truck, slowing down when they got within gunshot range. The detective cautiously approached, his pistol trained on the driver’s side door. When he got a look inside the vehicle, he saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel.
“Oh, mother—” d'Iberville muttered.
Then he got another shot of adrenaline. The hunt was over and he was the victor, the one who ended it. He began to formulate the speech they would require him to give when the mayor handed him a Distinguished Service Medal.
Yes, he would accept it with a humble spirit, sharing gratitude with all who served on the task force. But he would frame the front page pictures that were sure to follow.
His train of thought broke when he opened the door. He slowly pulled it open with his left hand. His pistol occupied the right. The driver lay motionless, showing no signs of life. d'Iberville eased his body back from the steering wheel into the bucket seat. He saw a slight movement in the driver’s chest.
The detective yelled into his radio. “Send an ambulance. Bridgestone is hit, but still breathing. Repeat. Send an ambulance.”
He heard the sirens approaching. Then he looked for the first time at the driver’s bloody face. All the blood drained from his own.
“Oh my God,” he said to no one in particular, His mouth remaining open.
He took a deep breath and began to regain his wits. He spoke gently into the radio.
“The suspect is not Senator Bridgestone,” he said into the radio.
d'Iberville realized he had just shot an innocent man.
Across Florida Boulevard at an all-night diner, Niki and Dalton shared a pepperoni pizza with jalapeno slices. They had a window seat and could see all the activity in the cemetery.
Dalton paused between bites of Italian pie.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Niki replied. “I didn’t know what else to do. We haven’t cleared your name yet.”
“And now, an innocent kid is wounded or dead because he agreed to put a rose on Juliette’s grave for a hundred dollars. I wish I hadn’t asked him to do it, but I couldn’t help it. I promised her that I would place a yellow rose on her grave until her murderer was found.”
She rested a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known John and those other cops would shoot an unarmed boy.”
Dalton was not convinced.
“I should have known better. With a million–dollar bounty, folks will shoot first and ask questions later.”
Niki looked through the stained window at the flashing lights in the cemetery.
“We’d better get out of here before the kid talks and John searches for us. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Dalton nodded.
“You’re right. I’ll drop you off. I have one more thing I need to do.”
Saturday Morning
Welker
The killer parked in the woods a few hundred yards before the Swain's ranch. The gravel road would be too noisy this time of the morning and the killer feared driving any closer would wake the family. The ranch was the only dwelling at the end of this road.
The man eased beside the road in the predawn darkness. When he got within sight of the house, he circled through the woods where he could see the rear entrance. He noted that Swain's Dodge truck was the only vehicle in the yard.
That meant Swain was careful. He sent
his family away for the weekend. If Swain had known how close danger lurked, he would not be in the house either.
The killer edged further around until he reached an eight-foot game–proof fence. He startled when an animal inside the fence snorted and blew air out of its nostrils before fleeing. Then other animals did the same. The whole herd of Whitetail deer raced to the other side of the pen, putting as much distance between themselves and the killer as possible.
The killer cursed at his own carelessness. He recalled that Wayne had an alternative livestock license. This license authorized him to raise many kinds of exotic wildlife, including the graceful Whitetail deer.
It was too late to kick himself. The man saw a light come on inside the ranch.
Bill Swain stepped on the back porch, cradling a double-barrel shotgun in his arms. The shotgun was old, but worked efficiently and reliably, this same as the day he bought it on his eighteenth birthday.
Swain peered into the darkness. Something spooked the deer. He realized that whatever scared his whitetails was close to the house, because the whole herd fled to the back of the pen. Swain saw nothing obvious in the backyard even with the porch lights on, but he knew something was out there.
It may be a bobcat or coyote. It could be a stray dog. But in his heart, Swain was certain it was another human being. One that was there for only one purpose; to end his life.
Swain went back inside for a few minutes. When he stepped back on the porch, he held a leash in his hand. On the other end of the restraint, a huge German Shepherd struggled to free himself.
The killer smiled. He planned for this contingency. He backed out of sight of the back porch and quickly scaled the fence, dropping quietly inside the pen.
That's when he heard Swain. "Sic 'em, Adolph."
The killer laughed at the lack of imagination of Swain in choosing the name of the dog of German origins. The killer heard the canine rush through the brush and arrive at the other side of the fence in a matter of seconds. It squatted down and barked.
"What is it, Adolph? What have you found?" Swain hollered from the back porch. He did not leave the perceived safety of the wooden structure.
The killer reached inside his backpack. He pulled out a container containing two raw hamburger patties loaded with enough arsenic to kill a dozen dogs. He brought them because he was uncertain if Swain bought one or two dogs for protection.
He threw a patty over the fence. The German Shepherd leaped on it, swallowing the beefy morsel in one mighty bite. The killer whistle to himself. Then he threw the second ball of meat over the fence. He did not believe it necessary, but took no chances. Besides, it would be difficult to explain a container of laced meat if something went wrong.
The dog eagerly scooped up the second offering and looked expectantly inside the fence, wanting more. Then it coughed. The coughs turned into convulsions. The huge German Shepherd stumbled, stiff legged in its attempts to remain upright.
The killer smiled when the dog fell on his side, no longer able to stand. He was still smiling when he heard a sound behind him. When he turned, to his surprise, he saw a huge whitetail buck only fifteen feet away.
The fierce animal faced him with ears pinned back. The old male deer with a swollen neck was clearly agitated. The killer was aware this was unusual behavior for whitetail buck at this time of the year. The rut, when the bucks chase willing does, takes place in the late fall or early winter in Louisiana, depending which part of the state the deer resides. That is when the testosterone levels are at the highest level in these beautiful animals.
At this time of the year, the bucks shed their antlers and grow a new set. When the killer peered into the predawn light, he saw the small nubs of the new antlers just emerging from the buck. Yet he was ready to battle.
The killer knew the most dangerous weapons of a whitetail buck were not its antlers, but its hooves. He quickly shimmied up the closest tree. The massive buck followed him and stood directly beneath, as if daring the man to come down.
The killer heard Swain standing on the back porch yelling for the German Shepherd. He could not stay in this tree past daylight and get discovered by Swain, who still cradled the shotgun.
The killer ripped a limb from the tree and beat the buck right on his new set of antlers. The antlers were covered with a velvet–like skin, with blood vessels and nerves exposed beneath it.
The buck, stung by the limb on his sensitive new antlers, snorted and ran back to join the rest of the herd. The killer dropped from the tree, scaled the fence, and circled through the woods to the front yard.
With Swain still on the back porch, he opened the unlocked door of the Dodge. Inside the cab, he placed a cherry bomb and a smoke bomb. He lit the fuses and raced back through the woods.
Bill Swain heard the explosions emanating from the front yard. He raced through the house, knocking over a chair and burst through the front door, shotgun level and ready. When he saw all the smoke in his truck, he ran to the kitchen and grabbed the fire extinguisher. By the time he returned to the Dodge, he realized it was all smoke and no fire. Swain searched the perimeter of the yard, scanning for any movement or any object that seemed out of place. He saw none. Then Swain walked to the edge of the woods. After a few seconds, he entered the forest carefully, taking a step or two and examining the entire area around them
After twenty minutes, he gave up and returned to the house. He laid the shotgun on the kitchen table and bent over to replace the fire extinguisher under the sink.
The killer snatched the back of his hair and pulled the knife underneath Swain's chin from one ear to the other. Swain fell to the floor, still holding the fire extinguisher with one hand. His gaze fell on the face of his killer, registering recognition. But when he tried to speak, only bubbles gurgled out of his open throat.
The killer stood over him and smiled.
"I wish I could stay, Bill. But I have more unfinished business to take care of."
He whistled and did not stop until he was in his vehicle and on the gravel road.
Friday Night
Baton Rouge
"What the hell is happening d'Iberville?" the chief screamed.
John tried to reply. "Sir, I—"
"You what?" The elder officer interrupted. "You want to admit that you screwed this investigation up worse than a mime at an auctioneer convention?"
"Chief, all I wanted—"
The senior officer exploded.
"Or do you want to tell me how you’re the luckiest cop on the force because you have the lousiest shot?"
"Sir, if you would just let me explain," d'Iberville pleaded.
"Explain what? How you put an innocent, unarmed kid in the hospital with a broken collarbone after you and those two idiots with you caused him to crash into a tree?"
"No, sir. There's a reason."
The chief’s face turned reddish-purple as if it was about to explode.
"Reason? Reason? Do you have a reason for the most famous fugitive since Bonnie and Clyde getting away from us not once, but twice in the same day?"
d'Iberville shuffled his feet. He had not been asked to sit down by the chief. He tried to maintain eye contact with his superior but failed.
"Technically, sir, it was two different days. It was after midnight when—"
The chief erupted. “Do you think I really give a rat’s ass it was one day or two days? The only thing that means is that you're a walking disaster no matter what day it is."
"I don't know how he could have found out."
The top officer glared at him.
"The point is, he found out. The kid in the hospital ID’d Bridgestone from a photo lineup. He said your distinguished senator paid him a hundred dollars to place a rose on the grave."
"Yes, Sir. I was there when he said it."
The chief paced around the small office.
"Then you are also there when he said you three imbeciles charged out of the bushes like a pack of marauding Apaches screaming and
hollering and pointing guns at him."
d'Iberville sighed.
"We identified ourselves as the police. It is standard procedure, sir."
"Is it standard procedure to scare the living daylights out of a 19-year-old boy whose only crime was putting a flower on the grave of a beloved young lady? Somewhere, you lost the meaning of standard procedure."
"Sir, if I may respectfully disagree—?"
"No." The top cop shouted. "You may not respectfully disagree. You blew the best two chances we’ll ever have to catch Bridgestone. You didn't even tell me about your plans. How did he find out?"
d'Iberville found a new interest in his own shoes.
"We are looking into that now. Nobody is admitting anything. But only a select few in our department knew of the operation. It should not take long to narrow down the list and find the culprit."
"Do you know what the worst thing is, d'Iberville?" The chief asked.
d'Iberville thought for a few seconds and shrugged her shoulders.
"No, sir. I don't guess I do."
The chief walked to the window and stared outside.
"Everybody out there will know now that Dalton Bridgestone has been right here under our noses the whole time. Right here in our grand city of Baton Rouge."
He paused.
"And they will know that we’re a bunch of incompetent ass holes who couldn't find George Washington on a one-dollar bill. That's the worst thing, d'Iberville."
"Sir, it's not that bad. As soon as we catch him—"
"Catch him?"
The chief turned and charged at d'Iberville, almost hitting him.
"Catch him? You couldn't catch a fish in an aquarium. How do you plan to catch a guy that is obviously a lot smarter than you and has at least one inside connection to this office?"
"Sir, we have plans—"
"No, d'Iberville. 'We' don't have any plans anymore. You are being relieved of your duties pending an internal investigation of the shooting at the cemetery. The department takes it serious when one of our own discharges a weapon at an unarmed civilian."