by BJ Bourg
“Anything?” Amy called from above.
“Just a lot of slop,” I said. “I’m coming up.”
I rocked forward and placed the palms of my gloved hands in the slop to push myself to my feet. My left hand sank about two inches into the saturated earth and then brushed up against something that felt out of place. The object didn’t feel hard, but it wasn’t soft like the mud. I quickly sat back on my heels and looked at my hand. It was wet, but that was it. I tried to see into the indention I had made with my hand, but couldn’t. It had already filled with black water.
“What is it?” Amy asked, apparently noticing my abrupt shift in movement. “Did you find something?”
“Don’t know,” I mumbled, scanning the earth around where I was kneeling. I was kneeling on the area of earth we had dug out to access the body, and I knew there couldn’t be anything buried under here. It wasn’t the original grave—or was it? “What do you think the possibility is that there are more bodies out here? What if it’s a mass grave of murder victims?”
Amy hesitated before answering. “I guess anything’s possible, but I should hope the hell not.”
I nodded and reached gingerly into the hole. Not really sure what to expect, my mind wandered a bit. Could it be a bone from another human? Or what about a root? Or maybe some buried artifact from the days when the Chitimacha Tribe occupied this area?
I probed the soft mud in the divot that my hand had created, but didn’t feel anything. I pushed through the mud to the left. Nothing. I pushed through the mud to the right and felt the object again. Running my hand over the top of the object, I realized it was about four inches long by three inches wide. I wasn’t sure how thick it was, so I began running my fingers down the side.
“Come on, Clint,” Amy called. “The suspense is killing me.”
“I can’t just yank it out of the mud,” I said, as I worked my hand downward along the side of the object. “Whatever it is, it’s old and might be brittle.”
When I had worked my fingers under it, I realized it was about an inch thick. I scowled.
“Can this be what I think it is?” I asked, scooping a large clump of mud that contained the object.
“What do you think it is?”
“Holy smokes, it is!”
CHAPTER 23
“Hey, Red, this is Clint—”
“Why the hell haven’t you called me back?” demanded Red, his voice exploding with anger. “I’ve been calling you for hours and you wait until the end of the day to call me back?”
“I’m sorry, Red, but we’ve been busy.” I pushed the door to my office open with my shoulder—my hands were full from holding several evidence bags and my phone—and let Achilles enter my office first. He knew the protocol. He was to go straight to the far corner, sit on a large cushion, and not interrupt me when I was speaking to people.
“There might be some developments in the case,” I explained to Red, “but I can’t discuss them just yet—”
“And why in the hell not? I’m the damn victim! You’re supposed to keep me informed every step of the way. I’m starting to think you don’t want to solve this case and you’re probably thinking good riddance because Zeke was nothing but trouble for the town!”
Amy walked in behind me and started clearing off my desk so we could examine the evidence I’d found at the bottom of the hole. Once it was clear, I placed the bags on the desktop and shoved a hand in my pocket.
“Are you listening to me, Clint Wolf?”
“I am,” I said slowly. “Where are you right now?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you right now?”
“Um, I’m home.”
“How about I come over there and we have this conversation face-to-face?” I suggested. “I can update you on the progresses we’ve made and you can ask any questions you might have.”
There was a long silence on the other end. “Are you…are you working Zeke’s case right now?”
“Yes, I am. We just got back from the murder scene, where I found an old wallet that might help identify the skeletal remains we found in the grave.”
“Wait, you found a wallet?” Red’s voice grew excited. “Could it be from the murdering bastard who killed my son?”
“No, it’s old. When we moved the skeletal remains during the storm, the back pocket ripped off and the wallet must’ve slipped out,” I explained. “We found it in the hole we dug to access the remains.”
“Will this help find my son’s killer?”
“We’re hoping so, Red—we’re really hoping so.”
“I…I’m gonna let you get back to work. I’m sorry for bothering you. I’m just sitting here going crazy. I feel like I need to be doing something. I need to get out the house. Maybe go for a ride or something.”
“Look, I can put you in touch with a grief counselor,” I said cautiously, thinking he would probably reject the offer. “The sheriff’s office has an excellent victim’s assistant team that—”
Red abruptly ended the call. I sat there staring at my phone. I knew what the man was going through. It was a violent rollercoaster ride of emotional terror—only there was no getting off of this ride. Unfortunately, it would last a lifetime.
I thought about calling him back, but decided against it. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way. If I tried to force a counselor on him, it would only make things worse.
“Did you have any luck at the library?” I asked, flipping on every light in my office while Amy covered my desk with butcher’s paper. “You were gone most of the morning, so I figured you’d had time to read at least two books in that time.”
“Maybe Lindsey, but not me.” Amy was referring to our dispatcher’s voracious appetite for reading. I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t see Lindsey with a book. There were times when she was so engrossed in her book that the ringing phone or slamming door would scare her back to reality and she would scream like someone was attacking her.
“But every chapter dealt with a different case,” Amy continued, “and I read the opening of every chapter. There were a few murders from this area—mostly in the sheriff’s office’s jurisdiction—but all of the bodies from those cases had been discovered.”
Once the paper was taped down, I opened the evidence bag that contained the wallet. I carefully removed the wallet and placed it at the center of the paper. It was a leather wallet, single fold. It was worn and dried out. It was obvious that the aging of the leather had happened long before it had been buried in the grave, but being down there for thirty-plus years had definitely dried it out. It had been stitched at the edges upon being constructed, but those stitches had long since rotted away and the strips of leather had separated.
While it was probably a light tan color, it appeared a darker brown at the moment due to being submerged in the water.
Amy leaned over the desk in anticipation. “Do you think his driver’s license is inside?”
Without answering her, I reached for the wallet and carefully unfolded it. The corner of a five-dollar bill was sticking out of the main pocket. It was sopping wet and I wondered if it was stuck to the leather. I certainly didn’t want to tear the bill, so I opened the pocket wide and that’s when I realized there were three more bills. In total, the wallet contained thirty-one American dollars—one twenty-dollar bill, two fives, and a one.
I spread them out carefully on the butcher’s paper. Amy took a few pictures and we studied the money, searching for the series date on each of them. They were all at least thirty-one years old.
“Every date we’ve found so far is consistent with him being in the ground for at least thirty years,” Amy mumbled from around her camera, taking one last shot before I examined the rest of the wallet.
There were two interior pockets on the wallet and I could see the edges of several cards sticking out of the pocket on the left flap. The pocket on the right flap looked empty. With the tips of my gloved fingers, I tried to grip the very edge of one of th
e cards and pull it out, but I couldn’t break it free.
I indicated Amy’s hands with a nod of my head. “Do you have nails?”
She flipped me off with both hands, exposing the short nails on her middle fingers. “Does it look like I have nails?”
I laughed and rifled through my top desk drawer until I found some nickel-plated evidence tweezers. Sliding the tips on either side of one of the cards, I gently worked it out of the pocket. It was a laminated card, so it had been well preserved. I squinted, trying to read the signature at the bottom of the card, but it was illegible. I glanced at the print atop the card.
“This is a membership card from a video store in Windrift, Utah,” I said, reading in awe. I hadn’t seen a video store membership card in years. “Remember when you could rent VHS tapes and DVDs from video stores?”
“I do.” Amy was leaning over me, reading. She pointed to the signature line. “Too bad you can’t see his name.”
I placed the membership card on the butcher’s paper and removed the next item from the pocket. It was a folded-up piece of paper and I had to use extreme care because it was saturated. It was yellow on the outside. I placed it on the butcher’s paper and began peeling it back one layer at a time. At one point, a corner ripped and I cursed inwardly. Finally, I had unfolded it and stretched it out across the butcher’s paper.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, staring down at the Walmart receipt. I was able to make out that it was for a purchase of a Ruger GP100. It had been a lay-away transaction and he—I was presuming it was our victim—had paid a little over $300 for the revolver. I couldn’t see the serial number on the receipt because it was too faded, but I already had it from the actual weapon.
“This man’s a time capsule,” I said. “First, the old money, then the video store membership card, and now this?”
“It’s a Walmart receipt—what’s so old about that? Walmart’s still thriving.”
“Walmart quit selling handguns nearly thirty years ago, and look at the price.”
“Oh, damn,” Amy said. “That is cheap.”
“Yeah, they’re more than double that price now.” I moved the receipt to a different spot on the butcher’s paper, because the first spot was now wet. I then reached for the next item in the pocket. It appeared to be a plastic card of some kind. When it was out and on the table is when I realized we’d hit pay dirt.
“No way,” Amy said, crowding even closer. “That’s a driver’s license!”
CHAPTER 24
“His name is Bud Walker and he’s from Salt Lake City,” I said, reading from the driver’s license. I placed it on the table so Amy could see it. I leaned back in my chair. “What in the hell is a man from Utah doing buried in the swamps of Louisiana? Isn’t that like a twenty-seven-hour drive from here?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.” Amy pulled the faded driver’s license close to her face. “He looks like a porn star from the seventies.” She turned the license and pointed to the wooly bear caterpillar on the man’s upper lip. “That hairstyle was big back then, but thank God it’s out of style. I’d never kiss a man with a mustache.”
I ignored most of what she said. Instead, I was racking my brains trying to figure out how this man could’ve gotten into those woods. I reached for the license and she handed it back. I had to squint to see Bud Walker’s date of birth. I wrote it in my notes and snatched up my phone to call Dr. Wong’s cell. She answered right away.
“Hey, Clint, do you have another body for me?”
“No, but we might’ve identified the skeletal remains.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I explained how we’d found the wallet and I gave her the man’s name, date of birth, and address. “Do you have any contacts in the Salt Lake City area?”
“I actually do.”
“Do you think you can call them and have them research their medical records to see if he’s ever been treated there?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “In addition to the screws in his jaw, I found evidence of an old break in his left fibula and he’s also had some dental work. Now, I have to warn you, retention policies differ from place to place. If they’ve retained his medical records from thirty years ago and can put their hands on it, we should be able to match him up. If not…”
I hesitated. “What do you think the chances are of that happening?”
“If he was treated in a major city like Salt Lake, the chances are good. Most large hospitals retain their records longer than is required by law and they have teams of employees whose job it is to scan old medical records into their system.”
I smiled. Finally, some good news. I thanked her and stood to my feet. Achilles’ ears perked up.
“Stay with Aunt Amy,” I said to him. “I’ve got to run this fellow.”
As I was walking out the door, Amy began explaining to Achilles what a pornstache was.
“Don’t corrupt my dog,” I called over my shoulder as I walked to the dispatcher’s station, but I knew it was probably too late.
Lindsey had already left for the day. Karla McBride had relieved Lindsey and she was just getting off the phone. She looked up and smiled as I approached.
I handed her my notebook and pointed to Bud Walker’s name and date of birth. “Can you run this guy through NCIC and see what you can find on him? He’s from Salt Lake City, Utah.”
Karla nodded and her short blonde hair bounced lightly. “Sure thing. Is this about those skeletal remains found in the woods? I heard about it on the radio on my way to work.”
I cursed under my breath. It would be easier to plug a hole in a protection levee with a fist than it’d be to keep gossip from leaking out in this little town. I nodded, but didn’t divulge anything more. Karla, for her part, set her fingers to dancing across the keyboards.
“Want me to bring it to you when it’s up?” she asked over her shoulder.
“No, I’ll wait.” I shifted my feet. “I’ll just stand right here and pray that you find something we can use to solve this case.”
“Well, I should be able to tell you—” Karla suddenly clamped her mouth shut. “Oh, wow, look at this.”
I leaned over her shoulder and glanced at the computer screen. As I read the caption, my mouth fell open.
WARNING: Suspect Armed and Dangerous.
The printer on the desktop lit up like a police car running code and it started whining loudly. Seconds later, paper began shooting from the output tray. I snatched them up as fast as they appeared. Once the printer had spat out the last page, I grabbed the report and thanked Karla profusely as I headed for my office.
Achilles looked up when I entered. There was anticipation in his eyes, but I told him to settle down, that we’d be there a while longer.
“Anything good?” Amy asked.
“He’s a wanted felon!” I handed her the report. “He’s been on the lam for almost thirty years.”
“What’s the charge?” She took the report and her eyes began shifting from left to right across the page.
“Aggravated murder, aggravated robbery and aggravated sexual assault,” I said.
“What’s aggravated murder and aggravated robbery?” Amy’s brow furrowed. “If I were a betting woman, I’d say first degree murder and armed robbery—is that right?”
“Yep, aggravated murder is basically the same as our first degree murder and aggravated robbery is similar to our armed robbery.” I leaned over her shoulder and studied the report with her, wishing to have more facts about the case. However, the printout only cited a case number, a detective’s name, and a phone number for more information. The bulletin, which had been issued by the Windrift Police Department, warned that officers should use extreme caution when approaching the suspect. He was categorized as armed and very dangerous.
“He’s not dangerous anymore,” I mumbled, walking around my desk and glancing at the time on my computer screen. It was a little after six-thirty. Most detective divisions operated between e
ight and five, but they all had an on-call detective. “Do you think I should call the Windrift Police Department now or wait until morning?”
“I’d call now.”
I nodded and reached for my desk phone. Before I touched the handset, it buzzed. “What’s up, Karla?”
“Clint, a detective from the Windrift Police Department is on the other line,” she said. “She wants to know if we have Bud Walker in custody. Should I tell her anything, or do you want to handle it?”
“Huh?” I glanced curiously at Amy, who lifted her hands, confused by my expression. “How’d they even know we have him?”
“After an agency enters a wanted person into the NCIC computer, they usually get an alert from the system when an officer runs that name,” she explained. “The same thing happens with stolen items and missing persons. We’ll usually receive a teletype message from the originating agency asking about the inquiry, but I’ve never had them call us within minutes of running a name or a stolen item. From the looks of it, this guy is really wanted.”
“What’s the detective’s name?” I asked.
“Leah Anderson.”
I glanced down at the report. Leah Anderson was the name of the detective on the NCIC printout.
“Please put her through.”
CHAPTER 25
After Amy and I exchanged greetings with her, Detective Leah Anderson asked me if we had Bud Walker in custody.
“It was my first murder case and I’ve been trying to catch him for thirty years.” Her voice echoed through the speakerphone on my desk. “Please tell me you’ve got him.”
“We do,” I said, “but he’s dead.”
“Dead? How? Did he resist arrest? Was anyone else hurt?” She took a breath and apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m just really excited. I haven’t heard a whisper from him since the murder happened, and my victims’ families have given up on me. I’ve been waiting for something to break for so long that it’s surreal. Okay”—she took a deep breath and exhaled—“was he killed during the arrest?”
