by BJ Bourg
CHAPTER 33
Monday, August 22, 2011
It was almost ten o’clock AM when I returned to CID. I’d spent the early morning hours at the hospital with Bethany and had managed to get three hours of sleep in a small chair next to her bed. Although she insisted on being discharged so she could come to work with me, her doctors refused to let her leave. They said it would be another day or two before she could go home.
I marched straight to the evidence section and approached the doorway marking the entrance to the immense warehouse-type storage area. The top half of the split door was open. I looked in and saw the evidence custodian sitting at her computer.
“Cindy, do you have a minute?”
Cindy Folse spun around in her chair, stood and met me at the door. “For you, I always have time.”
“You might regret saying that when you see what I need.”
Cindy opened the door and let me in. I tore a page from my notebook and handed it to her. Written at the top of the page was the case number we’d found in the birdbath out at the Payneville Park.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I need to know if you have any evidence at all from that case number.”
“I was two years old in ninety-one,” Cindy said when she realized the year on the case number. She sat at her computer and started stabbing at the keyboard with slender fingers. “So, what kind of evidence am I looking for?”
I walked close and looked over her shoulder as she typed the case number into the search field. “Well, I know they recovered a gun and some cocaine. They should’ve also logged a spent flash bang into evidence.”
“Is this connected to all the murders that have been happening?”
“I think so.”
“I can’t believe that about Captain Theriot. It feels kind of weird around here today. A bunch of news people were in the parking lot most of the morning.” Cindy turned from her computer. “Everybody’s being hush-hush about what happened, but from what I heard, Captain Theriot deserved what he got.”
“He tried to kill Bethany Riggs, so yeah, he got what he deserved.”
“Gina came in this morning with Bethany’s shirt and Captain Theriot’s gun and his uniform.” Cindy shuddered. “It was kind of eerie seeing clothes somebody I knew was wearing just a few hours earlier.”
I nodded toward her computer, where the search screen showed one result for the case number. “Is that it?”
Cindy spun back around and stroked a few more keys. A long list of evidence appeared on the screen. I leaned close to scan the list in search of a gun…there were four of them. Three nine-millimeter pistols and a three-fifty-seven caliber revolver. “Please tell me you still have the evidence here.”
Cindy switched to a different screen that tracked the status and location of each piece of evidence. “The semi-automatic pistols belonged to the officers involved in the shooting and were returned to them three months later. As for the revolver…” She searched for a few more seconds. “Hey, you’re in luck. The revolver’s still here.” She wrote down the bin storage number and stood. “Come on. It’s in here.” She led the way deeper into the office and through a solid steel door at the entrance to an enormous vault. It was where all guns and drugs were stored, and it contained thousands of guns.
Although everything was organized, it was no easy task locating the box containing the revolver Sheriff Burke and his crew recovered from the home of Lenny James. Cindy gave a triumphant shout when she located an aged box on a top shelf in the far corner of the room. “This is it!”
I reached out for the box and then held her hand while she stepped down from her rolling ladder. We moved to her desk and she sliced the evidence tape with a letter opener. I donned a pair of latex gloves and removed the revolver to examine it. The serial number had been scratched off. “Do you have a screwdriver?” I asked.
“I think so. Why?”
“Some guns have hidden serial numbers under the grip.”
Cindy reached in a filing cabinet drawer and pulled out a flathead screwdriver. I used it to remove the single screw holding the handgrip in place. When I popped the wooden side-plates off the grip, I sighed. “I guess this isn’t one of the gun manufacturers that hide serial numbers on their guns.”
“What’s that?” Cindy was pointing to one of the wooden side-plates. Something was burned into the underside of the wood.
“It looks like a social security number,” I said, making a note of the number. Cindy pulled up a computer program and typed the social security number into a search field. After she clicked on the search button, almost instantly a full page of results appeared, each line containing the same name, Zeke Hadley.
“Can you print that out for me?” I asked.
Cindy nodded and her printer fired to life. I grabbed the printout and studied it. There were six different addresses and three different phone numbers listed for Zeke Hadley. The date range was from 1988 to 2011. I pointed to the 2011 listing. “Is that his current address and number?”
“Yeah,” Cindy said.
I whistled. “This is some cool shit. What is it?”
“It’s a new law enforcement data base. I can find anyone with it.”
“How’d you get it?”
“You should have access to it now that you’re in detectives.”
I reached for Cindy’s phone to test her program’s accuracy. A woman picked up on the second ring. After telling her who I was, I explained my problem. “I need to find your husband to verify if this is his gun.”
“He’s on the road, but I can give you his cell number.”
I copied the number and dialed it next. A smooth-spoken voice answered the phone. “This is Zeke.”
“Hi, I’m London Carter, a detective with the sheriff’s office, and I’m calling to see if you ever owned a silver, three-fifty-seven revolver.”
“I sure did,” Hadley said without hesitation. “It was stolen twenty years ago from my truck. They caught the punks, but they never recovered the gun. Why? Did you recover it?”
“I might have.” I glanced down at the social security number I’d copied from the wooden plate. “The serial number’s been scratched off—”
“Not a problem,” Hadley said. “If it’s mine, all you have to do is remove the grip and you’ll find my social security number scratched into the metal or burned into the wood on the grip. I do that with all my firearms.”
“No shit,” I said, impressed. “Well, this is it. This is definitely your gun.”
“Where’d you find it? I figured it was lost forever and I’d never get it back.”
“I, well, I found it in our evidence locker. It’s been here for twenty years.”
“Evidence locker? What was it doing there?”
“It appears it was used in a shooting.”
Hadley didn’t immediately respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was cautious. “Was anyone hurt?”
“It’s a complicated case and two people were killed, but no one was hurt with your gun.”
“Is that the case they’re talking about on the news? They said the sniper who’s been killing cops has been linked to a case from twenty years ago. I saw it on the news earlier today. Is it involving my gun?”
“Do you know anyone by the name of Lenny James?”
“No, never heard of him. Why?”
“He was in possession of your gun on the night he was killed. He allegedly pointed it at some officers, and they returned fire, killing him. His baby had been killed when the SWAT team accidentally threw a flash bang into the baby’s—”
“I remember that case!”
“Yeah, it was pretty big news back at the time.”
“No, I remember it because I had to wait to get my other gun back. The detective who worked the burglary of my truck was also involved with that shooting. Shit, I think he’s the one who capped the man.” Hadley sighed. “Of course, I don’t blame the man for picking up a gun. No offense to you, but if a bunch of cops kicked
my door down in the middle of the night… Let’s just say I don’t think it would end well.”
I nodded absently, not hearing the last part of what he’d said. I was still stuck on his other gun. “You said you had to wait to get your other gun back?”
“Yeah, I had a snub-nose thirty-eight that was stolen, too, but I got that one back with no problems. It took a little while, but I got it back nonetheless.”
“Was the serial number scratched off that one?”
“No, it was in perfect condition. Just like it was when I left it in my truck.”
“You wouldn’t remember what detective worked your case, would you?”
“Yeah,” Hadley said, “it was Detective Ronald Day.”
“And the kid who stole your guns?”
“Oh, now you’ve got me.” The line went quiet, with the only sound from the other end being Hadley tapping on his steering wheel. “Look, I might be able to find his name in some old court papers. I keep everything pertaining to my guns and I know I kept those documents somewhere.”
I left my number with him and thanked him. Just as I hung up the phone, a knock sounded on the door behind Cindy and me. We both turned to see Sally Piatkowski standing there.
“Hey, Sally, how are you?” Cindy asked.
Sally pointed at me. “I’m looking for him.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I need to run some things by you. It’s about the case,” Sally said with a sense of urgency.
I thanked Cindy and followed Sally out of the evidence section and down the hall to the conference room. It was empty. Sally waited for me to enter and then pushed the door shut. “I was reading through the newspaper clippings and I might’ve found something.”
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
“A bunch of them went to the autopsies this morning—Gina, Melvin, Captain Chiasson and Rachael.”
As she talked, I walked to the conference table where dozens of yellowed newspapers were scattered along the lengthy tabletop. They were organized by date. I recognized some of the articles from earlier in the morning. “What did you find?”
“Now we’ve pretty much nailed down the motive for these killings, I figured the killer has to be a family member or a very close friend. So, I went through all of these articles, searching for a name, an interview, anything that might offer a clue as to their next of kin. I’d almost given up when I found this.” Sally folded one of the newspapers vertically and pointed to an article on the right half.
My brows puckered when I saw the tall, slender man in the picture. “This guy looks oddly familiar,” I said slowly. I glanced down at the caption and almost choked on my heart when I read his name beneath the picture—Kenny James. “Screw me!”
Sally’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Like, really?”
I waved her off and stabbed the picture with my finger. “I know this guy.”
“How? The article says he’s from Tennessee and last I checked, your ass hadn’t left Magnolia Parish in a long time.”
“I don’t know him, like for real. I mean, I’ve never met him, but I certainly know of him.” My mouth dropped in disbelief. “This is crazy. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“Think of what?” Sally asked impatiently. “How do you know him?”
“I have two of his books.”
“Books?” Sally’s face twisted in confusion. “You read?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. You just don’t look like the reading type.”
“Really? So what does the reading type look like?”
Sally blushed, looked away from my piercing stare. “I don’t know. Less…physical, I guess.”
I scowled. “Is that a compliment, or should I be insulted?”
Refusing to answer me, she pointed back to the article. “Come on; spill it. How do you know this guy? And what is it you should’ve thought of?”
“A few years ago, I received an ad in the mail to join this exclusive book club. You could get five or six books at like a dollar each, but you had to agree to buy five or six more over the course of a year or eighteen months. Anyway, I picked my five or six books and I decided to order the others right then because I knew I’d forget about them over the next twelve or eighteen months. Since I’d already picked all the books I could find by a few authors I’d already known about and there were no other books I just had to have, I decided to order the two-book set by Kenny James.”
I shook my head, still stunned from this revelation. “This is huge, Sally. You just blew this case wide open.”
Sally threw her hands up. “What are you talking about? What did I blow wide open? What do your books have to do with this case? Why is—”
“They were sniper books.”
Sally choked on her words. “What did you say?”
“He wrote two instructional books on sniping. He’s a former military sniper and he now works as a sniper leader for a rural county out in Tennessee. And better than that, his preferred aiming point is the left eye.”
CHAPTER 34
“Sheriff, I think we’ve identified the shooter!” I thought I could hear his jaw hit the floor through the phone.
“Wait…what…how?” Sheriff Burke stammered. “Who…who is it? Is he in custody?”
“Sally found a picture of Lenny James’ brother—Kenny James. He was there during the hearings in federal court. He watched y’all testify. He knows who y’all are!”
“Wait a minute…is that it? Is that all you’ve got?”
“Oh no, there’s more,” I said triumphantly. “He wrote two books on sniper training—I have them both—and he leads a sniper team in Tennessee. Furthermore, and this is the real kicker, he trains snipers to aim for the left eyeball!”
There was an audible gasp from the other end. “Where is he? Have y’all been able to track him down?”
“Sally and Rachael are on the phone right now calling every hotel, motel and bed-n-breakfast in the state to see if he checked in within the last few months.”
“Good! Keep at it. I just got off the phone with Corey. He’s just leaving the autopsies and he’s heading back to CID with Gina and Melvin. Get him up to speed and have them help y’all track down that piece of shit. I want him in custody before nightfall!”
“Sheriff, there’s a chance he’s back in Tennessee—”
“Contact the sheriff’s department up there and have them take him into custody immediately. I don’t want that asshole putting his head on a pillow tonight unless that pillow’s on a prison cot!”
“This guy is a hero in the sniper community. His books are required reading, and his word is often the last word on issues relating to sniping. He’s been certified as an expert on sniper techniques in nearly every state in the US, so I’m sure he’ll have—”
“That doesn’t give him the right to gun down my men!”
“No, it doesn’t, but he’ll undoubtedly have an ass-load of sympathizers and supporters in Tennessee.” I paused, letting it sink in. “I feel good he’s our guy, but we don’t have any hard evidence at this point. Maybe I should head up there and see what I can dig up. If I find something that absolutely ties him into the murders here, it’ll be harder for the Tennessee cops to ignore our requests. Sally located an address for him on Bear Mountain Road in Gatlinburg. We can be up there in ten hours.”
“Okay, I like that. If y’all don’t turn up anything with the hotels and motels, get up to Tennessee and see what you can find out. Keep me informed on all developments.”
I started to tell him about Zeke Hadley’s gun, but my phone began beeping. “Okay, Sheriff, I have to go. I have another call coming in and it might be about the case.” I checked the number. It was Zeke Hadley. I pressed the green button to pick up the call. “Mr. Hadley, how’s it going?”
“Good…I found that information for you. The guy who stole my guns was Jarvis Griffin. His address was on Tunnel Lane off of Highway
Fifty-One.”
I jotted the information down and thanked him. After flipping my phone shut and turning to my computer, I tried to find that database program, but couldn’t. A shadow fell over me and I looked up to see Gina Pellegrin.
“What’s going on?” Gina asked. “Corey said there’s been some major development in the case.”
I stood and nodded to my seat and handed her the note I’d jotted. “Can you look up this name in that database I’m supposed to have access to but don’t? I’ll fill you in on what’s going on while you do it.”
She plopped into my chair and her fingers danced across the keyboard. “Go ahead…fill me in.”
I told her about Zeke Hadley’s stolen gun and my suspicions that Major Ronald Day had recovered the gun back when he was a detective and had scratched off the serial number and planted it on Lenny James’ body. “If I can talk to Jarvis Griffin, I bet he’ll verify he never scratched the serial number off that stolen revolver and that Detective Ronald Day recovered it at the same time he recovered the snub-nose.”
“Um,” Gina said, leaning back in the chair, “you won’t be able to do that. Jarvis Griffin’s deceased.” She pointed at the screen. There was a large red “D” beside Griffin’s name.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive. Look at the address. He would’ve been about thirty when he died.”
I leaned back against the wall of my cubicle, feeling deflated. “Shit, I needed him. Can you see how he died?”
Gina continued hacking away at my keyboard. After several quiet moments, she pointed to the screen. “He died in a car wreck. He was driving drunk and hit a cement flood wall in 2002. There were two other people with him and they both died as well.”
I shook my head, and we joined the others in the conference room. Captain Chiasson had just hung up one of the many phones they’d set up in there and shook his head. “That was the last one on my list. What about y’all?”
Sally, Rachael and Melvin all shook their heads.
“He didn’t check into any motels in the state,” Rachael said.
“I checked over a hundred apartment complexes and none of them have even heard of this Kenny James,” Melvin said. “Shit, I never even heard of him.”
