by BJ Bourg
“Drive close to the boat, but stop about a hundred yards away.” Amy grinned and removed her badge and holster. After shoving her badge in the tight pocket of her jeans, she placed her holster on the floorboard and tucked her pistol into the back of her waistband. “I’ll walk up and say I’m having car trouble.”
“Why don’t I go?”
She looked me up and down. “He won’t offer to help you.”
“He won’t offer to help you either,” I countered. “You look too confident. You’ve got cop written all over you.”
She laughed. “You know that hundred you owe me? Why don’t we make it double or nothing?”
“You’re on.”
After getting to within about seventy-five yards of the boat, I shut off the engine and removed my seatbelt. I then watched as Amy dismounted and approached Gabe’s humble abode. She tried to walk as timidly as she could, but it wasn’t working. She could smooth-talk a suspect and play any role during an interrogation, but there was no way she would be able to alter her walk convincingly enough in a matter of seconds. She exuded confidence and that intimidated many men. She often complained about having problems finding a suitable mate.
I put the binoculars to my eye and scanned the area again. I froze when I saw movement from the stern of the boat. A head had popped up and then disappeared again. A second later, it popped back up and a fellow about twenty-six walked along the starboard side and jumped up on the wharf. He was carrying something in his right hand, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He hadn’t seen Amy yet, but she had seen him.
I eased my window down and heard Amy issue a greeting. Gabe’s head jerked around in Amy’s direction and he stopped in midstride.
“Do you have jumper cables?” Amy asked, shooting a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m having car trouble.”
Amy had slid her hand down to her right thigh and I knew she had also noticed that there was something in Gabe’s hand. I dialed in with the binoculars, but he had the object concealed behind his leg. His eyes were shifty. He licked his lips and said something I couldn’t understand.
“What about a phone?” Amy called out to him. “I’m not getting service on mine.”
I directed the binoculars to his right hand, but it was still concealed behind his leg. Amy continued walking forward. I could hear her voice, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying anymore. I didn’t like the looks of things. I was contemplating whether or not I should tell Amy to abort when Gabe’s hand suddenly flashed into view from behind his leg—and he was holding a pistol.
“Gun!” I fired up the engine, dropped the binoculars, and stomped the accelerator in one swift and simultaneous motion.
When Gabe’s hand came up, he snapped off two quick shots that sent Amy diving toward the bayou. I couldn’t tell if she had been hit as my Tahoe raced past her. I jerked the steering wheel to the right to put my SUV between the shooter and Amy. The vehicle bounced violently on the rough shoulder of the highway.
Gabe, who was armed with a semi-automatic pistol, turned his attention toward me and started firing indiscriminately in my direction. I clawed at my pistol with my right hand as I tried to maintain control of the steering wheel with my left. Just as I got my pistol out, bullets spat into the windshield, kicking shards of glass into my face.
I leaned across the center console and kept my head below the dashboard. My Tahoe hit a hole in the shoulder of the road and I jerked roughly, nearly losing control of the steering wheel. I glanced up just in time to see a telephone pole make contact with the front right corner of the Tahoe. Metal crunched and the side mirror exploded into pieces.
More gunshots erupted. I’d lost count of how many shots Gabe had fired, but I could tell I was rapidly getting closer to him, because his shots were growing louder. I glanced above the dash again and saw him standing in the road. He had assumed an isosceles shooting position—standing squared-up and holding the pistol straight in front of his body with a two-handed grip—and was tracking my vehicle as it moved forward. If I continued along this path, I would drive harmlessly between him and the bayou, and he could take me out by simply shooting into the driver’s door as I passed by.
Thinking quickly, I sat up and jerked the steering wheel to the left. I was about ten feet from him and he had nowhere to go. His face filled with horror as he realized what was happening, but it was too late. My front bumper smashed violently into his legs. He didn’t even let out a screech as he shot up on the hood and smashed through the windshield. Blood, flesh, and more glass peppered my face. My eyes involuntarily squeezed shut. I frantically felt for the brake pedal, forcing my eyes open and trying to see where I was going.
Right before I’d run over Gabe, I could see that I was headed straight for the opposite shoulder of the road, which was lined with trees. I figured I should steer to the right in an attempt to avoid a collision, but just as the thought entered my mind, my Tahoe came to an abrupt stop. My body was propelled forward and I met the airbag from the steering wheel head-on, taking it on the chin like a prize fighter. As for Gabe, he flew off the windshield like he was shot from a cannon.
When the dust from the airbag cleared and I had stopped coughing, I saw Gabe’s mangled body wrapped around a live oak tree that was about twenty-four inches in diameter.
“Shit!” I said, reaching aimlessly for the door handle.
“Clint!” Amy’s voice betrayed the fear she must’ve felt. “Clint!”
Dazed, I struggled with the door, but it wouldn’t open.
“Dear God, Clint, I thought you were dead.” Amy’s hair was dripping wet and her clothes clung to her like the fur of a wet muskrat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, indicating Gabe with a nod of my head, “but we won’t be getting anything out of him.”
CHAPTER 24
Within thirty minutes, the stretch of highway in front of Gabe Burke’s boat was crawling with first responders. A medic had tried to look at the brush burns on my forehead, but I had waved him off and told him to check on Gabe.
“I already did,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, eh?” I said wryly.
He nodded and walked away. I had been sitting on the tailgate of Melvin’s truck and now stood achingly to my feet.
“You okay?” Amy asked, sauntering over from the tree where Gabe had met his fate. “You’re walking like an old man who just got out of bed.”
“I’m just a little stiff.” I turned my head to the left and right and then looked up and down. “I’ll probably be sore tomorrow, but I’ll be fine.”
“That was a hell of an impact. I was just climbing out of the damn bayou when I saw you hit the tree.” She shook her head. “It did not look pretty. I didn’t know if it was you or Gabe flying through the air.”
“It was him, not me.”
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. “I figured that one out on my own.”
“He was our only hope.” I shook my head. “If we don’t find any evidence on his boat, we’re screwed.”
“Do you think it was him? Do you think he attacked Camille, Frank, and Chrissy?”
“He’s guilty of something—otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to kill you.” I slid off the tailgate when I saw Mallory Tuttle approaching. She was a detective with the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office, and I knew why she was there.
“Are y’all okay?” Mallory asked. She wore dark blue slacks, a purple silk blouse, and stylish ankle boots that clanked on the road when she walked.
Amy and I both nodded.
“We would be better if Gabe Burke would still be alive,” I said wryly. “We needed him to talk.”
“I hear you. Well, Mayor Cain called the sheriff and asked for an independent investigation, so here I am.” Mallory hefted a digital recorder in her hand. “Do you mind giving me a quick statement? I know you’re working a murder case and I don’t want to take up much of your time, so we
can do it in my car real quick-like.”
“You can go first,” I said to Amy. “I need to check on something before Mallory begins recovering evidence.”
Amy and Mallory moved to Mallory’s red unmarked Dodge Charger to talk, and I headed for the pistol Gabe had dropped in the roadway when I’d plowed over him. A deputy from the sheriff’s office was standing over it and nodded when I approached. Without touching it, I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture of the serial number stamped into the slide. When I walked away, I called Lindsey.
“Oh, Clint, it’s so good to hear your voice!” Lindsey was speaking excitedly. “When the calls started coming in, people were saying a cop had drowned, someone had been shot, and someone had been run over—I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”
“Yeah, we’re fine.” I then provided her with the serial number for the pistol and asked her to run it through NCIC. “I need to know if it’s stolen.”
I could hear her fingers instantly begin to patter on the keyboard. After a brief pause—with Lindsey humming to herself as she worked—she clucked. “There’re a bunch of hits on this serial number. What’s the brand?”
“Glock.”
“Ah, here it is.” She hummed for a few moments more as she read. “Yep, it’s stolen from out of Alabama.”
“Can you get me the victim’s name and a contact number?” I asked, looking up to see Amy walking away from Mallory. “I need to speak with them as soon as possible.”
Lindsey promised she would get right on it and I headed for Mallory’s car.
“You’re up,” Amy said when she walked by me. “I’ll secure a search warrant while you give your statement.”
I thanked her and settled into the passenger’s seat of Mallory’s unit. It was nice and cool inside. I took my time with the interview, almost not wanting it to end. As I talked, I glanced around the interior of her car, hoping to find something to eat. I would’ve been satisfied with a French fry from the floor at that point, but I had no such luck.
CHAPTER 25
When I had finished giving my statement to Mallory and she had asked the questions she wanted to ask, she shut off the recorder and put it aside. She then asked about our case.
I gave her the abbreviated version and she listened, her brown eyes turning curious.
“I’ve never heard of someone killing in that fashion.” She tucked a tuft of brown hair behind her ear and furrowed her brow. “Do you think your killer’s the guy wrapped around that tree?”
“We received word he was stealing from boats out on Le Diable Lake by swimming up to them in scuba gear, so…” I shrugged, allowing her to come to her own conclusions. Right then, my cell phone began to ring. It was the office. I held up my phone. “I might have something.”
It was Lindsey. I put her on speaker phone. Mallory and I listened as she gave me the name and number of the victim.
“The police department faxed over the theft report,” she also explained. “It says the gun was stolen from Donald Shelby’s boat while it was parked in his front yard. He said he forgot to take it out of the boat the night before and someone took it from under the seat cushion.”
I nodded as I copied the information. We were definitely on to something. I called Shelton’s number, but he didn’t answer. I frowned and left a message.
“He didn’t answer, but we know the gun Gabe used was stolen from a boat in Alabama.” I stabbed the dashboard of Mallory’s cruiser with an index finger. “I’ll bet you anything that Shelton’s boat was in Le Diable when his gun was stolen. He just didn’t realize it until he was back home.”
We spoke for a few minutes more before exiting her cruiser and going our separate ways. Amy was leaning against the hood of Melvin’s truck working on her laptop. She looked up when I approached.
“The judge is reviewing the affidavit.” She indicated my rucksack, crime scene box, and two rifle cases. “I rescued your gear from the wrecked Tahoe. Susan’s driving your truck down here and she’ll ride back with Melvin.”
I thanked her and glanced down at my ringing phone. It was the number I’d just called. I quickly answered.
“Hey, is this Detective Clint Wolf?” an uncertain male voice asked.
“It is,” I said. “Thanks for returning my call, Mr. Shelton.”
“Did you really find my pistol?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“Where was it?” Before I could answer, he quickly said, “Please tell me it wasn’t used in a crime.”
I heard him groan on the other side of the phone when I hesitated.
“No one was hurt,” I said quickly. “He fired shots at someone, but missed.”
“Oh, man, that’s such a relief!” He sighed heavily. “Ever since it was stolen I’ve been dreading receiving a call from the authorities saying someone was killed with it.”
I couldn’t guarantee him that it hadn’t been used in an actual murder prior to today, but I decided not to mention that part.
“What were the circumstances surrounding the theft?” I asked.
“Well, my son had borrowed my truck and boat a few weeks ago and he had parked it in my yard after he was finished with it. When he took it out on the water, he took my pistol out of the glovebox of my truck and put it in the cargo area under the seat of the boat. He said he forgot to put it back in the truck when he parked it in the yard. Apparently, someone dug through the boat and stole it.” He sighed. “I’m always telling him to lock it in the truck when he’s done, but he never remembers.”
“When did you notice it missing?”
“Um, right when I called. It was the beginning of August.”
“And when had your son borrowed the boat?”
“That same weekend. He left with it on the last Friday in July and got home that Sunday afternoon.”
I was about to ask where his son had taken the boat, but he suddenly exclaimed.
“Hey! Where did you say you were calling from?”
“Mechant Loup. It’s in southeast Louisiana.”
“Is that near Grand Isle? Because he said he was going to Grand Isle that weekend.”
“We’re a couple of hours away. Is your son around? I need to ask him where he went, because I’m sure your Glock was stolen here and not there.”
“Oh, that would make sense.” There was a pause and I could hear some footsteps. A door opened and slammed and then he explained he was walking to his son’s apartment. “He lives above the workshop on our property.”
I waited patiently as his footsteps trounced through what sounded like dried pine needles and then up wooden steps. Finally, he stopped walking and I heard a loud knock.
“Hey, Dad, what’s up?” said a tired voice.
“Aren’t you supposed to be packing for college? You leave tomorrow, Son.” There was a brief exchange, where the son began making excuses for sleeping in, and Shelton started lecturing him about self-motivation.
I wanted to ask Shelton to move the conversation along, but I didn’t want to be rude. I caught movement beside me and turned to see Amy pointing to her computer.
“We’re good to go,” she whispered. “He signed the warrant.”
I nodded and could wait no longer. “Mr. Shelton,” I said, interrupting his scolding. “May I talk to your son?”
“Um, sure.”
When the young man was on the phone, I apologized for disturbing his sleep.
“I was calling to find out about your trip to Grand Isle at the beginning of the month.” I paused, giving his tired brain time to catch up. “Did you go anywhere other than Grand Isle?”
“Yeah, I went to a party on this lake.”
“Which lake?”
“Um, I don’t really remember the name of it. It’s not far from Lake Berg, where we used to go fishing a lot.”
“Do you remember anything at all about the name of the lake?”
“It’s got a weird name. French or something.” His voice was hesitant, like he thought he was be
ing accused of something. “I know someone said it means evil or Satan or something like that.”
“Would you know it if you heard it?”
“Yeah.”
“Le Diable—The Devil?”
“Yeah! That’s it.”
“After leaving the lake, did you ever look under the seat in the boat to see if the gun was still there?”
“Um…what’s this about?”
“We recovered your dad’s stolen gun. We need to find out how it got to Mechant Loup.”
“Oh, that…” There was obvious relief in his voice. “No, sir, I never looked under the seat after I put it there. We were partying and I never touch a gun when I’m drinking.”
“Do you drive your boat while you’re drunk?” I asked pointedly.
“No, sir. My dad would kill me. We slept on the lake that night. Well, we were actually there two nights—Friday and Saturday. We ended up not even going to Grand Isle.”
I nodded and was about to end the call when I thought of something else. “How’d you find out about a party on Le Diable Lake?”
“One of my friends told me about it. She said there’s a party on the lake every weekend during the summer. She said it gets crazy. She described it as Bourbon Street in the swamps.”
I scowled. That’s the last thing I wanted for our peaceful swamps, but I kept my thoughts to myself. “Did you notice anything strange while you were here?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—anything moving around in the water that might’ve seemed strange. Did anyone notice anything missing from their boats? Did anyone get attacked while in the water? Anything at all that might’ve been out of the ordinary.”
“So it’s true.” His voice seemed strained.
“What?”
“That there’s a monster in the water around that lake.”
“Don’t go believing everything you hear on the news,” I cautioned. “They don’t always get it right.”
“Oh, it’s not just the news. One of my friends saw the monster for himself. We just didn’t believe him.”
