The Bayou Strangler

by Fred Rosen

That was four days before his body was discovered. Garcia had said he could have been dead up to thirty-six hours before discovery. That left one day to account for.

  “I lived at the Sugar Bowl Motel for approximately one year,” Maples continued. “While living there, I became familiar with several ‘subjects’ that frequented the place. That guy in the picture you showed me, I last seen him in a white, older-model Suburban with another white guy.”

  “What was Lirette wearing?”

  “A white T-shirt with white underwear under it, baggy blue jeans, and a red cap turned sideways.”

  The white T-shirt had vanished. Lirette had been shirtless when found, and no T-shirt had been located on or near the dump site.

  “The Suburban pulled up next to Laverne’s Bar,” Maples continued.

  Laverne’s Bar was near the motel. According to Maples, the man in the picture got out of the truck, which had out-of-town plates. She couldn’t remember what state they were from.

  “When the guy got out of the truck, the other white guy behind the wheel kept hurrying him up. He kept telling him that the police was looking for him and they needed to leave.”

  Maples claimed that her memory of the person shown in the picture was so vivid because she had said to herself that he was acting like a “nigger.” It was the way he was dressed and how he carried himself, as if that justified the use of the “n” word. She also said that a black woman named Susan Prindle hung out with the white guy who was driving the Suburban.

  “Prindle usually frequented room 234 or 235 at the Sugar Bowl,” she said.

  Maples was a nosy person who obviously paid attention not only to her business, but to others’ as well.

  According to Maples, there was a short white man with a mustache in one of the rooms. The second room was occupied by an older black male. As for the white truck, it usually came to the Sugar Bowl late at night. Maples said that she had seen the white Suburban recently.

  The white guy had worn a red cap. He had a busted lip and it looked like it had been busted for quite some time.

  “He walked with a limp,” she said.

  Fryman had heard enough. He handed Maples his business card and asked her to call if she remembered anything else.

  A white guy with a limp?

  Detectives know that murder brings out the aberrant tendencies in people. They like to say they saw something, or believe they saw something, that is relevant to the case, if only for the attention. It was through that filter investigators needed to process incoming information.

  The Houma Courier ran a story of the discovery of Lirette’s body; most of Houma’s residents didn’t care. The paper would routinely report such murders when they occurred. The guy was just some hustler who got in over his head. It was bound to happen sooner or later, considering the kind of lifestyle Leon Lirette had led.

  That night, while patrolling the east side of Houma, Fryman saw a white Chevrolet Suburban on Chateau Court. But the man behind the wheel was black, not white as Maples had described. As he approached the mini-mart to pay for gas, Fryman parked his car and followed on foot. He showed the man his badge and asked for his ID.

  The man identified himself as Lloyd Peck and his ID confirmed it. He was surprised the cop was questioning him because he hadn’t done anything illegal.

  “Do you know a man named Leon Lirette?” Fryman asked.

  “No,” said Peck.

  “Do you allow anyone else to utilize your vehicle?”

  “No.”

  Fryman then quickly explained the reason Peck had been stopped. Peck completely understood. Fryman also warned Peck that he might be stopped again in the future and recommended that he comply with law enforcement. Of course, Peck agreed. Before Fryman released the man, he looked in the window of the suburban and noticed that the entire rear seat was filled with boxes.

  He made a mental note and released Peck.

  On March 3, Fryman was contacted by Captain Malcolm Wolfe of the Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s Office. Wolfe told Fryman that the sister of one of his investigators had witnessed an individual on the air base on February 19 “that appeared to be extremely nervous.” That nervous individual was in a maroon car, possibly in the same area where Leon Lirette’s body was located.

  The next day, the investigator in question, Brittany Johnson, called Fryman to follow up. She explained that once her sister Susan Idle had learned that a body was recovered at the air base, she told her that a suspicious guy in a car had parked near a large tree by the Houma Shriners building. Fryman called the sister in and asked Brittany to join them.

  According to Susan Idle, “While on Moffett Road, we passed the church, which is next to the Shriners building, then the Shriners building, when I saw the maroon car parked next to a tree. It was either a Buick or Chrysler. A white guy was standing on the driver’s side doorway of the car and appeared nervous as he gazed at the passing traffic.

  “He was smoking a cigarette and he was dressed in a white T-shirt with writing on it, blue jeans and like a normal haircut. As soon as I heard about the body being found on the air base, I called my sister.”

  “A normal haircut?” What did that mean? Fryman took Idle over to the air base to reconstruct where she had been, where the car had been parked, and most importantly, where the victim had been dumped. Idle’s account brought the cops one step closer to the serial killer, though they didn’t know it yet. As for Dominique, his choice of victim had once again worked to his advantage.

  There was a serial killer running amok in Southern Louisiana and no one knew it was him. He was acting like he could get away with it forever.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The White Van

  Lafourche, Jefferson, and Terrebonne Parishes, April 2005

  In his mug shot, August Watkins looked like a real tough guy.

  He glared at the camera, his expression stony and defiant. In death, his expression was totally passive. His fully clothed body lay in a wooded area near the Lafourche Work Release Center in Lafourche Parish, discovered by a passing motorist who immediately called the sheriff’s office.

  The response of detectives was immediate. But once again, there was no identification on the victim. The Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Office put out a BOLO bulletin containing information describing the victim, seeking help from other parishes in identifying him. Two days later, on April 11, Fryman’s lieutenant handed him a copy of the BOLO.

  Looking it over, he saw the similarity to the victims in his parish and theorized it was the same killer. Fryman then called the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Office with the news of the serial killer he was trailing.

  “Detective John Walker is currently investigating the incident,” Fryman was told by a receptionist who was authorized to speak. “He is currently at the Jefferson Parish Coroner’s Office attending the victim’s autopsy.”

  “Have you made an identification yet on the body?” Fryman asked.

  “Not at the moment,” the receptionist stated. “I’ll have him call you during the day with particulars on the investigation.”

  Ty Hutchins, a tall, lanky detective, got back to Fryman later in the day. The coroner had ruled that the victim’s manner of death was strangulation. The victim’s identity would be shared with Fryman as soon as Hutchins got it. A few more hours went by. Toward the end of the day, Hutchins took a drive and walked in the door of the Houma Police Department.

  He met with Fryman and told him that they had gotten prints off the corpse. Run through the AFIS database, August Terrell Watkins was finally identified as the victim. Watkins was a thirty-two-year-old black man. He had brown eyes, was five feet six inches tall, and weighed 130 pounds.

  “We have a possible address for him,” Hutchins told Fryman. “Also, a next of kin. An aunt Pearl Nixon’s address.”

  Fryman filled him in on his investigation. On t
he basis of the choice of victim and the MO, Fryman suspected they were hunting the same man—the Southern Louisiana serial killer. The two detectives drove to Watkins’s last known address on Isabel Street. It was possible he had been abducted from that location or near there; there might be some clues. Maybe something left behind.

  Arriving, they knocked at the door. It was opened by an attractive woman in her thirties. After the detectives showed her their shields, she volunteered information.

  “My name is Sandra Hooten,” she said.

  When Hooten was told whom they were looking for, she motioned behind her.

  “August lived behind me. It’s the last house on the left,” she said. “But I don’t think he’s there.”

  “Why?” Hutchins asked.

  “He was evicted a couple of months ago. I think he was sent to live with some relatives,” Hooten answered.

  Fryman walked to the rear of the residence. There were two other houses behind the one Hooten lived in. A look in the window where Watkins had lived revealed the home to be completely empty. Fryman and Hutchins then decided to go over to the second address they had, on Harding Street, for Pearl Nixon, next of kin.

  When the cops arrived, they were told by a neighbor that Pearl Nixon had just left to get a tire fixed. After a while, the detectives saw a gray Dodge Neon heading their way. They thought the driver could be Pearl Nixon. She pulled to the curb and cut the ignition. Getting out, she walked around the car, and Hutchins approached her.

  “Pearl?”

  The middle-aged woman looked up and saw the detective’s badge.

  “I’m Detective Hutchins. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your nephew, Terrell Watkins, is unfortunately dead.”

  While Hutchins was speaking to the woman, Fryman, on a hunch, had wandered up Harding Street to another residence, where he encountered an elderly black woman named … Pearl Nixon. Suddenly, he realized that by some strange coincidence, the woman Hutchins was talking to was named Pearl all right, but not Pearl Nixon.

  But Fryman didn’t pause to relay the info to Hutchins. He immediately began his interview with Nixon.

  “I’m August Watkins’s aunt,” Nixon explained to Fryman. “The family usually calls him ‘Terrell.’”

  “Did you know he was living on Peters Street?”

  “Yes, but I learned that he couldn’t pay his rent and was put out by the landlord.”

  She also said that he was later living with Mina Parker on Matthews Drive, but she wasn’t sure if he still was there.

  Then Hutchins, who had just been informed of the mix-up, arrived. The questioning continued.

  “When was the last time you saw Terrell?”

  “Here, in my place,” said Nixon. “But he was behind my house, at Susan Sisto’s house. I was watching television and I overheard Terrell say, ‘Auntie, I’m leaving.’”

  She said he was carrying a black garbage bag and a duffel bag. That was the last time she saw him. She had no memory of what her nephew had been wearing. Fryman and Hutchins left Nixon and went over to Susan Sisto’s house in the rear. Sisto told them that Watkins had come to her house on Friday morning around 8 a.m.

  The place was a mess, and Watkins, who lived with Sisto, had made it that way. And when he arrived, Sisto gave Watkins a garbage bag—not for cleaning up the mess, but to use as luggage. It contained some clothes she’d received from various people that she figured he could use; he didn’t have much. She didn’t know of anyone he hung with and she was sure he had left her place in the daytime. He was probably homeless.

  As the detectives continued their conversation, Elizabeth Jones showed up. She too was an aunt of Watkins and was in shock after hearing about her nephew’s death. Another nephew, John Reed, had told her that he had seen Terrell walking through the Houma Tunnel, a dirty, smelly pedestrian tunnel that leads from one side of town to the other. According to Reed, Terrell had been holding a garbage bag when he went through.

  Other relatives then began to arrive as the news of Watkins’s murder spread. Family friend Carrie Prescott said that she had spoken to Watkins recently. He had left the house where he’d been living with his girlfriend because her kids were getting on his nerves. A woman was waiting for him outside when he did. Prescott couldn’t remember anything distinctive about the woman and had no idea who she was.

  A second friend of Watkins’s, Sandy Smithers, told Detectives Walker and Fryman that her niece Francine Scott had found a garbage bag in the woods near Jack’s Grocery. She wondered if maybe it was Terrell’s. The detectives headed out to investigate. It was possible, they theorized, that Watkins had been abducted near the grocery store and someone might have seen something.

  When they got to Jack’s Grocery, the two detectives got out of their car and walked toward the entrance. They were about to enter when Francine Scott appeared and directed them to an empty lot to the left of the bar Tim Buc II. There, Scott showed them the bag she had found. Fryman saw that it was near a tree within a small wooded area that led to an open field.

  Walker noticed a partial watchband hanging from a tree. Perhaps it was the serial killer’s. Calling in the criminalists, the scene was photographed, the bag and the watchband tagged as evidence, and the area scoured—with no notable results. Back at the Houma Police Department headquarters that afternoon, Fryman looked through the case file, trying to spot something he might have missed previously.

  It was frustrating. When would they finally catch the killer?

  Near the end of his shift in late afternoon, Fryman was patrolling the streets of Houma. What he hadn’t told anybody was that he had previously “popped” the other nephew, John Railsback, on a drug offense. So when he eyeballed Railsback driving a Plymouth, Fryman stopped him to chat. Railsback said that he had last seen Watkins on Friday evening, April 8.

  It was right after he had gotten off work from his job at the Cleaner Than New detail shop. He claimed that, after being forced to move out by his girlfriend, Terrell was homeless. That’s how Railsback came to find him sleeping on the steps to the Houma Tunnel. Railsback recalled that Watkins carried a dark-colored duffel bag and a garbage bag with red string.

  Fryman asked Railsback to come in for an interview the next day. Railsback gave a formal statement, explaining he was getting off work on Friday, April 8, 2005.

  “It was approximately 5 p.m. or 6 p.m. when I started walking toward the Houma Tunnel, toward my home. When I got to the stairs, I saw Terrell sleeping on the lower level of the east-side entrance steps.”

  “Why were you sleeping in the tunnel?” he had asked his cousin.

  “Liz Jones put me out of her house,” Terrell answered. “I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Why don’t you go back to Elizabeth’s? You shouldn’t be sleeping in the tunnel.”

  Railsback had finished his conversation with his cousin. Then he had continued to walk through the tunnel toward Margaret Street.

  “I went to Elizabeth Jones’s residence after talking with you yesterday,” Railsback said to Fryman. “She told me about a white man in a white truck that was looking for Terrell. I’m going back to see if I can get some information on the white truck. If I get anything, I’ll contact you.”

  Fryman wasn’t content with that response. It was necessary to trace the last steps of the victim to establish the timeline of death. Fryman had Railsback drive out to the Houma Tunnel, where Fryman took photographs of the area. The detective saw several articles of trash, but none appeared to have anything to do with the disappearance or homicide of Watkins.

  Returning to Jack’s Grocery, Fryman decided to interview the clerk, Tabitha Zwerling. He showed her a picture of August Watkins. She recognized him, and then some. She was family.

  “August Watkins’s brother, Willie Saulsberry, lives with me. I remember Terrell coming in the store on Friday morning. He purchased two Li
ttle Debbie iced honey buns and one Diet Coke. I didn’t see him carrying anything, but I do remember him saying the honey buns were not for him, because he is a diabetic.”

  Zwerling said that she had heard Terrell was dead. It got her thinking about who might have done it. Willie had told her that Watkins hung out with a white guy, though Willie didn’t know his name. Watkins had said the white guy was a friend of his.

  “The guy drove a white truck. Willie also told me that Terrell talked about having a girlfriend in Thibodaux. We thought he was making that up. Willie had never met the girl, but Terrell talked about her constantly.”

  Fryman’s cell phone rang. Excusing himself, he took the call and spoke to someone from dispatch. Elizabeth Jones had been calling the department repeatedly, requesting to speak with him. Ending the interview with Zwerling prematurely, Fryman went over to Matthews Drive to meet her.

  “Terrell used to live with me but just recently, he moved out,” Jones said. “I have a new boyfriend, John Bolden, who is coming home soon.”

  Watkins had said that he was going to live with his new girlfriend, “Winter.” She didn’t know Winter’s last name.

  “But she is a short, fat black girl,” she added.

  The next day, Terrell came back at about ten in the morning. He was looking for his social security check and Jones gave it to him. They went to Regions Bank on Grand Caillou Road. Since Terrell didn’t have enough money for an account of his own, she deposited his check in her account and gave him the cash, common practice in impoverished communities.

  Driving back to her house, Watkins asked Jones to let him get out of the car at the intersection. She pulled over to the curb and he got out. She never saw him again.

  “When I got home, the telephone rang and it was the white guy calling for Terrell.”

  Fryman asked how she knew who it was.

  “He said on the phone that he was Terrell’s friend, that he has the white truck.”

  Jones remembered coming home from Mount Pilgrim Church on Sunday, April 10, at about 10:30 a.m. She saw a white truck on the road: behind the wheel appeared to be a heavy-set man wearing a hat. Seated on the passenger side of the truck was a black woman she knew as Winter. As the truck passed, both of them looked toward her house in what she thought to be an odd manner.