“One time.” Oliver scanned the report. “The charges were eventually dropped.”
“I’d be willing to bet they were only dropped because the young girl and her family didn’t want the trauma and attention of a trial.”
“Unfortunately, that’s entirely possible.” Oliver handed me back the report. “But I don’t see the connection. It’s a big leap from voyeurism to murder.”
“He’s a creep. And one who carries around a gun. Maybe he got caught again being where he shouldn’t. He could have been watching Clotille Cormier, and her husband caught the guy red-handed and went ballistic. There was an argument, and in the heat of the moment, Johnson shot the husband and then had to kill the rest of the family for protection.”
“Last time we talked, you were sure that the Strickland and Cormier cases were connected. Have you changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I thought this was worth checking out.”
“Maybe. Guess we can’t rule out a scenario like that, no matter how far fetched.” Despite his dismissive comment, Oliver rose from his seat and grabbed his car keys. “But on a case as dead and cold as this one, it’s worth pursuing. Besides, we have time. I’ve got Mullins and Sinclair doing more legwork on the Strickland murder. They’re interviewing the men from the bar again. Figured Tommy Sims and his gang could be leaned on a little harder. Keep the pressure on them.”
We’d interviewed them all separately and tried to break them, but each held firm to their story that after leaving the Pavilion the night Strickland was murdered, they’d all gone over to Eddie’s place and crashed for most of the rest of the evening.
I tended to believe they were all telling the truth. None of them were smart enough or possessed enough self-discipline to stick to a lie. The men had been buddies a long time, but when push came to shove, any of them would sell out the other for a deal if faced with a murder charge.
Pride had me glowing inside as we headed to the parking lot. It would be amazing to find justice for the Cormiers after all this time, not to mention a real feather in my cap to have helped break a major case. I pictured Ginger’s sour, smug face transform to an expression of chagrin when I informed her that I’d been the one to solve the case. That would take the starch out of her sails.
“We’ll talk to his boss first. Even I know that Samuel ‘Buddy’ Munford is a big shot around Enigma. We don’t want to unnecessarily rustle feathers.”
“Exactly. He’s a county commissioner and good friends with Mayor Rembert.”
“I’m already on thin ice with the mayor going over his head to hire Carter Holt.”
“Have you heard from Holt in the last couple days?”
“He’s exploring the possibility of Sims, Yaeger, Booker, and Knight being involved in drug trafficking. So far, all he’s discovered is that all four smoke pot. But at least he’s worked his way into their group. If they’re involved in selling the strong stuff, he’ll sniff it out.”
“Or if we’re lucky they’ll all get high together and someone in the group will confess to murder.”
“So far they’ve all hung together tight,” he said as we both climbed into the vehicle and buckled our seat belts.
“Do you still feel confident that Strickland’s and Ensley’s murders were both drug related?” I asked.
“It’s the only common thread between them. At least, that’s all we know of so far.”
I wasn’t convinced but realized we had to pursue any path that presented itself.
“Hmm.” Oliver’s noncommittal tone told me he wasn’t nearly as interested in solving the old Cormier case as that of the most recent homicide. We were only interviewing Buddy Munford because we were temporarily at a standstill with the current case.
Oliver switched on the air-conditioning. April in the bayou was sometimes surprisingly chilly, but today the temperatures had hiked. A prelude to the steamy summer season around the corner.
We arrived at Munford’s business headquarters in minutes. Before we got out of the car, Oliver cautioned me to let him take the lead in the questioning. “Don’t want him complaining to the mayor that we harassed him or insinuated he or one of his employees is in any way a suspect in the Cormier murders.”
“Got it.” We walked up the path, and I hoped Buddy was there and would let us inside. As much as I’d observed the house from the outside and watched it being built, I’d never seen the interior. Gravel crunched beneath our feet.
“It’ll be interesting to hear why he kept Johnson on after that complaint was filed,” I said.
“Could be Munford believes his partner wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. That it was a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Right,” I scoffed. “Like there’s ever a good time for a man to go inside a woman’s public bathroom.”
“Keep an open mind,” he said mildly as we climbed the porch steps.
I mulled over my boss’s gentle warning. Had my past experience with Ensley that horrid night forever tainted my sense of fairness when it came to sex crimes? My track record with men was certainly not good. I’d become a promiscuous teenager, and my marriage to the twins’ father hadn’t even lasted a month past their second birthdays. None of my romantic relationships had ever lasted. Although I never voiced my suspicion of their love and commitment to me, I could never fully trust a man, and on some deep level they must have picked up on that. Eventually, I simply gave up on relationships, and my life became easier—even if a bit dull. But I never looked back on my decision. Give me peace over drama any day.
Two large hounds lay on the porch, and my right hand automatically reached into my pants pocket for the Mace can. They arose from their comfy pet beds, barking a friendly greeting, and walked to us, heads down and tails wagging. I removed my hand from my pocket and lowered to a knee, one hand extended. They sniffed and then rubbed against me as I petted their heads.
The screen door creaked open, and Buddy Munford filled the open doorway. “I see my guard dogs gave you a warm welcome.”
Oliver smiled and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Oliver. Pleasure to meet you.”
Munford shook his hand and turned to me, arm extended.
“Deputy Blackwell,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Y’all come on in.”
So far he’d displayed no surprise or curiosity as to why a couple of sheriff’s deputies had arrived at his front door. Johnson must have tipped him off we were asking questions.
The interior was as impressive as the outer facade. Despite the enormous square footage, the living area managed a warm, cozy vibe with its stone fireplace and gleaming oak floors. Leather sofas and chairs were arranged in intimate groupings. An abundance of sheepskin throws and knitted pillows were scattered over much of the seating. Glowing lanterns stationed at every table added to the hospitable atmosphere. Large-antlered deer heads and bass fish were mounted on the walls along with photographs of grinning guests proudly displaying their kill.
Munford led us to a seating arrangement and indicated for us to sit down. I sank into a recliner, my fingers skimming over the rich, smooth leather of its arm. I could envision the adventure-enthusiast guests at night, sipping whiskey from cut crystal tumblers and possibly smoking expensive cigars as they swapped stories about their day’s adventures.
“Johnson told me you paid a visit this morning,” Munford said, getting right down to business and confirming my earlier suspicion. “I expect you have a couple questions for me on that.”
Unlike Johnson and many other people we questioned in crime investigations, his tone was inviting rather than hostile. He sat leaning toward us, elbows resting on his knees and palms open, his expression one of candor. Frankly, it was refreshing.
Since I was the one who’d questioned his employee, I opened the discussion. “I spoke to Johnson. Quite routine, given the proximity of his cabin to this place at the time the Cormiers lived here. I asked him if he’d ever observed any unusual
comings and goings back then, especially any that occurred at odd times. He told me he had not. Which I happen to know is . . .” It was on the tip of my tongue to say a lie, but I remembered we were supposed to be respectful of his political connections. “Untrue,” I concluded, opting for the less stark word.
Munford cocked his head to the side. “Why do you think he was lying?”
“Because I’ve interviewed a credible witness who’s told me the opposite. It made me curious that your employee lied . . . um, wasn’t honest, that is . . . so I checked into his background and came across the voyeurism complaint.”
“First of all, Cash Johnson is my partner, not an employee. He became an investor years ago. Now, back to the matter at hand. Could be your supposedly credible witness is the liar, or it could be that Johnson doesn’t remember the alleged prior encounter the witness referred to.”
He seemed hung up on disputing my witness’s claim instead of addressing the filed complaint. I guess that was understandable. He wanted to cast doubt on my witness to distract from Johnson’s actions.
“What we’re trying to establish is whether your partner had, or once had, a compulsion to watch women,” Oliver explained, smoothly glossing over the issue of who’d been the one lying to me. “If so, it’s possible that he’d been caught spying on Mrs. Cormier, and this might have led to the murders.”
Munford straightened until his back brushed against the chair. His hands rested on his thighs, his mouth pursed in a stubborn line. “I’ve known Cash for years. He’s no murderer.”
“You understand we have to pursue all possible leads,” Oliver said, shrugging one shoulder.
Munford unthawed slightly. “Of course. So how can I help you today?”
“Fill me in on what happened back in 2013. I’d rather hear it from you than call the victim and her family and dredge up the past. But if I have to, I will.”
“The girl was showering one evening and claimed she caught Cash in the doorway, watching her.”
My fingernails dug into the buttery leather of the recliner arm. His use of the word claimed galled me. “What?” I asked sharply. “Are you saying you don’t believe her?”
“I didn’t say she lied,” he protested, thrusting his hands in the air, palms up.
“Good. Because I see no reason why a fourteen-year-old girl would make up a story like that.”
An uncomfortable silence settled in the spaces between us, charged with the weight of unspoken thoughts.
“Did you take any action against Johnson in light of the complaint?” Oliver asked at last.
“I spoke to him, and he assured me that he’d gone into the facility for routine cleaning and maintenance.”
I couldn’t stay silent. “Routine cleaning?” I scoffed.
Oliver shot me a warning glance, but Munford ignored me and continued his story.
“Cash said she screamed when she saw him, and he immediately apologized and ran outside.”
“Have there been any other incidents over the years?” Oliver asked.
“Not a one. After this happened, I sat Cash down and had a long talk with him. He convinced me it was all a misunderstanding. I warned him that if I ever received another complaint, he was out of a job.”
“So you’re telling us that if we call the family who filed the complaint, they’ll tell us that they willingly dropped charges because they didn’t want to be embroiled in a legal battle without solid proof of the sex crime?”
“That and the fact that I paid them a small amount of money,” he conceded.
There. What I’d suspected all along. “Why would you pay them if you didn’t believe anything happened?”
“For the misunderstanding. I didn’t want them bad-mouthing our company to potential customers.”
“How much?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said, as though he were truly sorry he couldn’t cooperate more fully. “All the details are part of the civil nondisclosure agreement.”
Frustration ripped through me along with sharp disappointment. Even if I called the family in question, they could tell me nothing without violating the terms of the settlement.
“I see,” Oliver said. “This angle appears to be a dead end. While we’re here, though, is there anything you can tell us about the Cormiers that could help us in our investigation? Did you know them personally?”
“Oh, sure, I knew them. Louis more so than his wife and son. He occasionally did legal work for the county commission.” Buddy shook his head. “I felt terrible when I heard the news about their remains being uncovered. Damn shame. Especially about the boy dying so young. Had to be the work of professionals to have wiped them all out and then hid the evidence for so long. I hope you find those responsible and make them pay for what they did.”
Oliver nodded as he rose to his feet. I followed suit, trying to shake off my frustration.
“Thank you for your time,” Oliver said. “We know you’re a busy man.”
“Anytime I can help, you just let me know,” Buddy said, guiding us to the door.
I stepped outside, keeping silent until Oliver and I were ensconced in our vehicle. Oliver started the car and glanced at me.
“Don’t take it so hard,” he said, swinging the car around the curved driveway and onto the road. “It was worth pursuing. You never know when you might talk to the right person and shake things up. Whoever the killer is might get word we’re asking questions and get very nervous.”
“And make a stupid mistake? If it’s organized crime we’re dealing with, I don’t think that’s likely.”
“To me, the mob theory is far fetched,” Oliver admitted. “If it had just been Louis Cormier, then yeah, I’d buy it. But the mother and teenage kid? A hit man would have planned a killing so well there would be no need to cover accidental witnesses.”
“So it might have been the work of an amateur who screwed up and then had to kill the others to cover up his mistake?”
“If I had to guess, then yes, I’d say so. Look, Tegan. Don’t get your hopes up about solving the Cormier case. We’ll do our best, but the crime’s so old it’s likely we’ll never discover the identity of the killer or killers.”
I said nothing, gazing out the window at the thick tangle of woods on either side of the road. Bayou Enigma was well named—ancient and full of secrets and mysteries. I wondered what stories the old oaks, black-crowned night herons, and stagnant waters teeming with alligators might tell us if they could speak.
Chapter 22
JORI
It was too quiet. Way too quiet.
I stopped pulling clothes out of the washing machine and listened, waiting to hear voices or movement, but there was only the low drone of muted plum notes from the television in the den. My ears tingled with unease. I set the damp clothes on top of the washer and checked my cell phone: 4:12 p.m. Where had the time gone? I could have sworn it had only been ten minutes ago that I’d heard a vehicle in the driveway, then the opening and closing of the screen door and a low murmur of voices—Zach returning home from his day program.
But Zach always arrived home between 3:30 and 3:45 p.m. There should be sounds of life from the den or kitchen. Quickly, I stuffed the last load of laundry in the dryer. I’d been pondering the Cormier and Strickland murders as I’d cleaned, absorbed in reviewing everything I knew about the cases. Mimi had promised she’d take care of Zach when he got home, and so I’d allowed myself to focus on the murders instead of caretaking. I should have known better.
Before heading down the hallway, I did a quick check of the bathroom—unoccupied—and then Mimi’s and Zach’s bedrooms. Both were empty, the perfectly made beds a disturbing omen.
In the den, I found Mimi sound asleep on the sofa, her afternoon show unwatched. Should have known better than to trust her to take care of Zach. A bolt of resentment flashed through my mind that I quickly stifled. Mimi was old and ailing. She and Zach were my responsibility now.
I headed to
the kitchen, figuring Zach had fixed his own afternoon snack and would be happily sitting at the table scarfing down his usual treat of peanut butter sandwiches and mint chocolate chip ice cream. But the table was empty and its surface bare and spotless. A quick glance around and I saw no pickle jar, ice cream carton, or breadcrumbs on the counters either.
A knot formed in my stomach, and I returned to the den.
“Mimi! Wake up. Where’s Zach?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she slowly rose on one elbow. “Zach?” she repeated blankly, before lowering her legs to the floor. “He must not be home yet. What time is it?”
“It’s after four.” I glanced out the front window. No Zach.
Mimi flung off the afghan and stood on wobbly legs. Her eyes were wild with a panic that reflected my own rising concern. “Check the garden,” she commanded in a shaky voice.
I ran out the side door, my heart racing. Surely he’s out there, I thought, trying to tamp down my fear. Zach often enjoyed going outside with Mimi while she tended to the newly sprouted vegetables. But as I rounded the house, only the raw, upturned earth greeted me.
A lone crow swooped in to feast on unsprouted seeds. No doubt the rest of the murder would join in shortly. Mimi would not be happy with that. In the past, she’d tried to scare them away with tin pie plates strung on a line and crude homemade scarecrows, but the crows were too damn smart to be fooled. Thank goodness I’d insisted she get rid of her old BB gun. It wasn’t safe with Zach around. He had no sense of danger when it came to moving vehicles or anything lying around the house.
I pressed my hands to my cheeks to ground myself in the present. I was losing it with these random, irrelevant thoughts. I had to focus. Where was my brother?
“Zach!” I screamed and screamed his name until my throat was raw. Even then I didn’t stop calling him. “Zach! Where are you? Time to come inside.”
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