The Lies We Bury

by Stacy Green

  “He wouldn’t have waited until his thirties to start molesting girls,” Cage said. “Lyric’s age didn’t bother him as long as she looked older. He probably started in his late teens or early twenties. So, we’re talking around 1989 and later.”

  “The national sex offender registry wasn’t started until ’94,” Bonin said, “and it didn’t really get organized until the mid-2000s—around the same time Lyric disappeared. People didn’t register, and the states didn’t have an adequate tracking system. We’re looking for a needle in a scummy haystack if we don’t have his real name.”

  “Go into the NCIC’s main database—not the registry—and go back pre-2000 and look for white men with a preference for biracial teenaged girls,” Cage said. “And don’t limit it to assault. Look for guys arrested for stealing underwear or hiding out in girls’ locker rooms, that sort of thing.”

  The FBI’s National Crime Information Center had been cataloging cases for fifty years. As long as the record had been entered, it would be accessible.

  “If he’s got a juvenile record, I can’t access it.”

  Cage shook his head. “You can if it was reported. The FBI usually leaves them in the NCIC. They battle with the states on that, but the feds usually win and keep it in the system.”

  It was a long shot, and going through decades of records would take time, but right now this was their best option.

  A rap on the window made them both jump. Sean waved a grease-stained hand at them.

  “Idiot.” Bonin motioned for him to back away. They slowly exited the car.

  “You ought to know better than to sneak up on cops,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Sean still had on his work uniform, his clothes streaked with grease. “Agent Foster called me earlier. I meant to get back to you, but I been helping a friend get his car running. Then my brother said you two were in the neighborhood.”

  Bonin grinned at Cage. “The Lower Nine. Just as unique as the French Quarter. No matter how rough it gets, they stick together, right?”

  Sean nodded. “My mom’s house got washed away in Katrina. We rebuilt it, even though this one’s not as big. Our family’s lived here since my great-grandpa came in off the plantation looking for paid work. We’re not going anywhere. You guys looking for Lyric’s mom’s ex? The pig who took the video of her in the shower when she was a kid?”

  “You knew Lyric back then?” Cage asked.

  “Nah, but she told me about him. Real creep. Used to brag about getting away with selling because his cousin covered up for him.”

  “His cousin?” Bonin asked.

  “Officer Lionel Pietry. I think he still patrols the Quarter.”

  52

  I’m trapped inside the barn again. My fingernails rake down the wooden stall. My weak voice begs for help. There’s no answer, and it’s only a matter of time before he comes to drag me back to the camper.

  “Please, God. Let him kill me. Don’t make me endure it again.”

  Cigar smoke hits me, sweet and pungent. I shrink away until my back slams against wood. I rub my watering eyes, and a scream strangles me.

  A tall man emerges from the tornado of smoke, but he’s just a skeleton, with gray shadows along his cheekbones and around his eye sockets, red blazing where his eyes should be. A snake curls around his shoulders and winds around his walking stick. He blows a ring of smoke in my face and tips his tall hat.

  I’m paralyzed.

  He holds out his hand. I shake my head, pinning my hands behind my back. But my hand is suddenly trapped inside his, and we’re running. Out of the barn, into the fields.

  He stops. I yank free.

  I still see the barn and the camper from here. A light’s on. It’s only a matter of time before he sees us.

  “We have to go.”

  The skeleton man belly laughs, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any flesh underneath his suit. The noise echoes through the fields and into the valley where the man lives.

  He tucks his cigar into the corner of his mouth. “He cannot hurt me.”

  “Who are you?”

  The thick snake winds around his neck, and the skeleton pats it affectionately. “You know who I am. And you know why we’re here.” He points his gnarled walking stick at the ground.

  Mounds of dirt, side by side.

  The faces of other victims.

  My teeth chatter in fear. “Are you the Grim Reaper? Am I dead?”

  His laugh is deep and raspy. Shivers race down my spine. “You are not dead. And I am not the Reaper.”

  I can’t stop staring at the graves. “Why did you bring me here?”

  He leans down until his face is close to mine, smelling of rum and spice. The white cross on his black top hat sparkles in the moonlight. I should be terrified, but I feel only peace.

  “It was not your time to die.” He points a long, bony finger at the graves. “And they were innocent children, robbed of life by a cruel man. He must be stopped.”

  “I can’t stop him.”

  He smiles, his cigar wedged between his teeth. “She will never draw him out without your help. You must show her the way.”

  “Who? I don’t even know where I am.” I turn in a circle, seeing the moonlit fields and the fat blob of trees.

  But the smoke has turned into a cyclone, carrying him away.

  “Please, don’t leave me out here.”

  He tips his hat again. “Ale kounya a.”

  Go now.

  I’m staring at a familiar ceiling, with white paint peeling away from the exposed beams. I sit up on the couch. My head feels like a watermelon, and my hair is plastered to my face and the back of my neck.

  Miss Alexandrine is asleep in her chair, her chin on her chest and her Bible in her lap. Her reading glasses dangle from the bridge of her nose.

  Dizzy and jelly-legged, I slowly stand. The house stinks like cigar smoke.

  His seductive laugh still echoes through my head, his silky voice beckoning me.

  I know what I have to do.

  53

  Bonin accelerated through a yellow light. “Pietry was the arresting officer. I should have put two and two together.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Cage asked.

  “He’s the asshole who gave you a hard time after Annabeth hit you.”

  “The sweaty redneck you shot down?”

  “The very one.”

  Cage dreaded the answer, but he had to know. “How did you get him to drop the charges?”

  “Promised him we’d go for a drink this weekend.”

  Talk about taking one for the team. “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a twenty-year patrol officer who never moved up the ranks,” Bonin said. “He claims he wanted to work the streets, but he applied for detective twice. The second time, I got the job.”

  Cage grinned. “How did that go over?”

  “As well as you can imagine. I made detective fairly young—right after my thirtieth birthday. So that pissed him off even more. We both worked at the Eighth District in the Quarter, and he either put me down or asked me out. He’s only got two gears.”

  “If he ran interference for his cousin’s drug business, he might be helping him with other things. Like kidnapping teenaged girls.”

  A homeless man leaned against one of the Eighth District’s white pillars, smoking a cigarette and talking to himself. A woman sat on the steps, playing a game of solitaire, her backpack tucked underneath her. While most major cities tried to keep their homeless population out of the public—and tourists’—eyes, New Orleans appeared to embrace it, at least in the French Quarter. Some of them eked by entertaining tourists, while others congregated in the dirty alleys and narrow corridors between the buildings.

  Twenty feet from the front steps, several people enjoyed coffee and beignets in the next-door café’s courtyard. The dichotomy between tourists blowing money on alcohol and trinkets in the shops while the homeless suf
fered in plain site was unsettling.

  Bonin checked in with the night sergeant, who said the evening had been unusually quiet. Cage showed his old badge and signed in.

  “Where are we going?” He followed her down the dim hallway toward the back of the station.

  “Locker room.” She stopped in front of the men’s. “Make sure no one’s in there.”

  Cage gave her the all clear. Bonin scanned the lockers until she found Pietry’s. “Thankfully these lockers haven’t been updated since the ’80s.” She pulled a nail file from her pocket and stuck it in the lock.

  “You sure this is a good idea?” Cage asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you really asking me that? Remind me what you told your supervisory agent—after you lied about being employed by him.”

  “All right.”

  “We just need to count clicks to the flat spot.” Bonin used the nail file to twist the dial, listening to the clicks. “Ten.” She twisted in the opposite direction. “Twenty-seven.”

  “Guess you weren’t always a cop,” Cage said.

  “I couldn’t remember my locker combination in high school to save my life.” Back the other way. “Two.”

  She entered the combination and opened the door. A picture of a smiling woman and a gap-toothed little girl was taped to the inside, along with a newspaper article about Pietry reaching the twenty-year mark.

  Cage moved to go through the locker’s contents, but Bonin waved him off. “This is on me. Oh, gross.”

  Pietry had left a half-eaten sandwich along with smelly shoes and a dirty uniform.

  “The sweat stains are never coming out of this shirt. The thing could walk on its own.” She pulled a baggie out of the shirt pocket. “Weed. What an idiot.”

  Bonin yanked the uniform pants out, and a couple of folded papers fell off the shelf.

  Cage picked them up and opened the first one. “Looks like a picture, printed from a crappy—Jesus.”

  Bonin already had her cell out. “I think Pietry and I should have our drink tonight.”

  Cage leaned against the wall, sweating and hoping Bonin pulled this off. A formal request for an interview with Pietry would tip him off. He heard voices and strained to make out words.

  “I need to show you something.” Bonin opened the door. “Have a seat, Lionel.”

  Pietry crossed his arms and glared at Cage. “The hell is this? Myra, I thought we were going for a drink.”

  “You’re off shift,” Bonin said. “And I have some questions for you.”

  “Too bad.” His club-hands shoved the table away, and he started to stand.

  “Sit,” Bonin said.

  “You kiddin’ me, right? You’re a fine piece, and I’ll drink with ya. Take you to bed. But I ain’t bowing down to you just ’cause you got that shield.”

  Bonin tossed the baggie of marijuana on the table. “This was in your locker.”

  His pockmarks turned red. “You got no right to go through my shit.”

  “The door was open,” Bonin said. “I wanted to make sure nothing was stolen.”

  “You just hanging out in the men’s lockers?” Pietry spat. “Looking for a good time?”

  “I noticed it,” Cage said.

  “I’m not that stupid, pretty boy.”

  Bonin laughed. “You sure about that? Want to guess what else I found?”

  “That muffuletta I forgot to take home. You think the olive salad makes it soggy?”

  “A couple of grimy pictures of a girl who doesn’t look legal doing some nasty things with you.” The image of a naked Lionel Pietry had been burned into Cage’s brain.

  “You can get the fuck out.” Pietry pointed a stubby finger. “You don’t work here. Ain’t even a cop right now. Everyone knows your fancy new dick-sucking job don’t start for two more weeks.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Cage said. “But that means I don’t have to follow the rules, either.”

  Pietry snorted. “What the hell do you two want?”

  “How much were you paid for the story about Annabeth George?” Bonin asked. “I should have known when you agreed to drop the charges you had something planned.”

  “Sweetheart, I dropped those charges ’cause I thought I’d get you drunk enough to finally get in your pants. I didn’t say shit to the press.”

  “You’re not the only one capable of getting information,” Bonin said. “I checked in at your favorite bar. You made it easy since you were shitfaced and bragging about the money.”

  Pietry’s lip curled. Fat made up the majority of his bulk, but his big fists could do some damage. Pietry’s hostile eyes followed Bonin as she strolled over to the wall.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Come at me. I’d love to throw your ass in jail.”

  He wouldn’t attack. Pietry was too much of a coward—a man with a big mouth who made sure the women he abused couldn’t fight back.

  “What about you hiding her identity?” he said. “I sent the information to the Adams County Sheriff, and this piece of shit shows up. I figure he’s going to take her home, but I wanted to know why the hell she was claiming to be Lyric. Then you arrest her again and book her as Lyric. Bet your Commander won’t be impressed with that.”

  “You’re not going to tell him. Because then everyone knows you’re the leak.” Bonin waved the baggie. “And then there’s this.”

  “How did you know Lyric?” Cage stepped forward, adrenaline pumping. The dumbass hadn’t even realized his own slip.

  “You said “claiming to be Lyric.” No last name. You knew Lyric Gaudet, and I’m asking how.”

  “My cousin dated her mom back in the day,” Pietry said. “Billy hated losing her after her druggie mom OD’d and she went to live with Grandma.”

  “You didn’t know Lyric was missing?” Bonin asked.

  “Not until I realized you two were up to something. Crazy ass girl, believing she was someone who drowned in Katrina. That grandma must have been nuts too.”

  “I can’t imagine why you didn’t make detective,” Cage said.

  Pietry’s neck bulged. “I never wanted that.”

  Bonin snapped her fingers. “Focus. Let’s talk about your cousin who dated Lyric’s mom. Is he still dealing?”

  “Billy? He’s all about the Lord these days. Ain’t touched anything in seven years.”

  Unbelievable. It couldn’t be this easy. “Seven years this month, maybe? Did he have some kind of come-to-Jesus event?”

  “None of your business, asshole.”

  “It’s my business.” Bonin held up the printed off pictures from his locker. “Child pornography carries a hefty sentence.”

  “Them girls are seventeen, and that’s above the age of consent in Louisiana.”

  “Maybe,” Bonin said. “But I think between these and the weed, you’re looking at getting shit-canned and maybe lose your pension. And that’s if you slither out of the charges.”

  Pietry dragged his hands through his mass of gray hair. “Goddamn, Myra. I can retire in four years.”

  “Then answer our questions, and we’re done. What did Billy go through seven years ago?”

  “Billy’s a good dude. He’s changed.”

  “I doubt it,” Bonin said. “I’m tired and hungry. You don’t start talking I’m taking these to the LT.”

  “All right,” Pietry said. “The girl he’d been with for a few years was all strung out. He had it bad for her, but she wasn’t getting no better. He was going to cut her loose, but she starts bringing home girls for him. Teenagers. Says he can do whatever he wants and she’s cool with it as long as he lets her stay and keeps the drugs coming.”

  “And good guy that he is, he agreed,” Bonin said.

  Pietry shrugged. “Was all good for a while. She had her drugs, and he had some hot ass. Willing, too, from the way he talked about them. Then one night, she brings two girls. Billy said those two broads were up for anything, and they had fun for a few days. Then the girlfriend—whatever you want
to call her—went nuts. She locked both of them in the barn, in a horse stall full of shit.”

  “His girlfriend did this?”

  Pietry nodded. “That ain’t the worst. She lost her shit and made one of the girls kill the other.”

  “That’s the story your cousin told you?” Disgust rolled through Cage. Had Billy made up the narrative for the cousin, or did he really see his victims as willing?

  “Sure is.”

  “See, I think it’s the other way around,” Cage said. “I think his girlfriend had been held against her will for a long time, and when he was done with her, he made her bring in new girls. Usually it’s just one, and he keeps them for a few years. Does a lot of really shitty things. Then he kills them, and she finds another. Only seven years ago, he ended up with two. He slit one’s throat and planned to keep the other one. But she escaped, and his ass nearly got caught.”

  Cage spread his hands wide. “Come-to-Jesus, maybe. Or he’s a lot smarter and more careful. Either way, I think your cousin’s a kidnapper, and a rapist, and a killer.”

  Bonin held up the picture of the girls. “These pictures make me think you might have been in on it with him. Did he give you these girls?”

  “The hell you talking about? Those girls come from Tulane Avenue, paid for in cash.”

  “Prostitutes?” Bonin said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Damn right.”

  “And you like light-skinned ladies, right? Creoles, like me?”

  He licked his lips. “Sure do. I’m still willing if you are. I’ll make an exception on your being over thirty and all.”

  She slammed one of the pictures down in front of him and pointed to the girl tied to the bed, spread-eagled, staring straight at the camera. “See her?”

  “She liked bein’ tied up.”

  “It’s a good shot of her face,” Cage said. Pietry wasn’t just a scumbag; he was an idiot for leaving the pictures in his locker. “Helped us find her in missing kids database. She’s a fourteen-year-old runaway suspected of being sold into sex trafficking.”

  Pietry’s smug attitude had disappeared. “I didn’t know. The place on Tulane said she was seventeen. They had her birth certificate.”