by Graham Smith
I find a hard-backed diary.
The diary has a picture of a meadow printed onto the front and back covers. When I open it and scan a few pages I find the one thing in Sherrelle’s life which isn’t tidy. Her handwriting.
It takes me a few false starts, but I begin to understand the scrawls. I pick out pages at random, but the general feel of the ones I read are that of a journal, rather than a diary of feelings and otherwise untold emotions.
She’s chronicled the achievements of the family and their day-to-day events – the only hint of personal details are expressions of love and pride.
I skim the pages looking for anything which speaks of arguments with colleagues, neighbours or people represented by Darryl. There’s nothing apart from banal dealings recorded on those fronts. A snippet of gossip here, a pleasant comment or two about a co-worker there.
Were the contents of the diary not so potentially important in finding who’d snatched the Fourniers, I’d launch it across the room in disgust at its saccharine wholesomeness. Sherrelle loved her husband and kids, championed them and crowed about their achievements.
If there had been any animosity in their relationship it hadn’t come from her. There were no suspicions written down nor complaints about Darryl working late. Her comments on the subject were supportive of his dedication to providing for his family.
I put the diary back and return to Robyn’s bedroom. Her diary is harder to find, but when I remove the bottom drawer of her dresser it is lying on the floor behind the kickboard.
Robyn has a neater script than her mother, yet her diary is no better as a source of information. She talks of what I assume are school friends. The main topics are unrequited love for a classmate, and her girlfriends’ relationships – both actual and desired. Her parents barely get a mention, and when they do it’s for tension between her and them rather than arguments between Sherrelle and Darryl.
I’m about to head back downstairs when my cell rings. It’s Chief Watson.
4
The chief is waiting for me when I arrive at the police station. His face is grim and there’s a set to his jaw which speaks of determination. When I meet his eyes, I see pain and despair for the depths of depravity he encounters.
‘You sure you want to come with me?’
‘No, but if I don’t come Alfonse will.’
He gives a terse nod to show he understands the sacrifice I’m making for Alfonse. His craggy face softens. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t want to go either.’
Alfonse had argued to come with me when I’d broken the chief’s news to him. It was only the disintegration of Nina which had seen him back down. She needed him more than he needed to see what may be the bodies of Darryl and his nearest and dearest.
I sit in silence as the chief drives us north on the 191. The radio in the pickup crackles with chatter, but there’s nothing interesting enough to wrest my thoughts away from what lies ahead.
Halfway to the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area, he slows to a halt behind a police cruiser. An officer standing beside the cruiser points us towards a rough track leading into Ashley National Forest. I notice how he doesn’t look at either of us. His thoughts elsewhere.
The chief engages a low gear and sets off up the track. Before he’s travelled fifty feet I realise it’s a mistake.
‘Stop. Stop right here.’
‘Why?’ There’s a mix of ornery and curiosity in his voice.
‘How would you get four bodies to where we’re going?’
‘I’d use a pickup truck or an SUV.’ He looks at me without understanding. ‘Goddamn it, Boulder, what’s your point?’
‘How many trails are there to the dump site?’
He shrugs, getting exasperated. ‘I don’t know. One, two maybe?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to use them.’ I pick my words with care. While I may have assisted with stopping a twisted serial killer a few weeks back, I am only here on the chief’s sufferance. ‘You never know what evidence or clues you may hide or contaminate by driving over them.’
An expletive escapes his lips as his hand reaches for the SUV’s radio. ‘I want four good men with hiking equipment to search the trail. They’re looking for tyre prints, discarded litter and possibly footprints. If any of the men you send are in the detective squad, I’ll consider their presence as your letter of resignation.’ His eyes flick towards me. There’s a touch more colour than usual in his cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.’
I try a spot of reassurance. The chief is a good man and a better ally. ‘If I had to think of everything you have to, I’d probably not have thought of it either.’
We climb out of the SUV and look at where the track disappears into the forest. ‘You know we’re two miles or so from the dump site?’
‘That’s good. It means there’s more chance of getting a tyre print.’ I point to the right of the track. ‘If we walk a few feet out from the track we can still follow it and see any big pieces of evidence.’
‘Don’t push it, Boulder. You might have gotten the jump on me once, but I give the orders round here.’
I step back and let him lead. He chooses to follow my suggestion. It’s tempting to point this out, but I remember I’m only here at his request.
The going is easy at first with gentle slopes and a clear passage through the trees. As we travel further into the forest the hill becomes steeper and the trees closer together. Fallen branches and treetops, snapped off by high winds, litter the ground causing minor obstructions.
My boots are good enough to keep my feet dry, but their soles are worn smooth from walking on paved areas. As we make our way up a steeper bank I can feel them slip and slide on the loose pine needles. If I’d known I’d be hiking in the woods I’d have worn something more appropriate. The jacket I’m wearing is fine for town but, up here with the sun hidden from view, it’s too thin, and the exertion of the climb is all that’s keeping me warm.
The chief is wearing a windbreaker pulled from his jeep. For a man of his age he’s showing remarkable resilience to the strains of the exercise. The pace he’s setting is a fast one.
With no landmarks to guide us, there’s no way of knowing how far we’ve travelled. Considering the terrain I reckon we’re making about two miles an hour which means it’ll take around an hour to get to our destination. A glance at my watch shows we’ve still got at least another half hour of hiking ahead of us.
We encounter a small glade, and use a few exposed rocks to cross a stream without getting our feet wet. The bright sun in the glade raises my temperature enough to give me the sweats.
Five steps after re-entering the forest I’m drenched with perspiration. The beer and liquor I’ve consumed over the last few days is now leaking from every pore. My thin jacket now feels like a heavy winter coat as the alcohol escapes my body. While there’s a certain level of discomfort and embarrassment to my situation, I welcome the sweats. Combined with the exercise and fresh air, they are chasing away the hangover which has dogged me since I first opened my eyes in that crummy motel room.
The roiling in my gut is easing and the orchestra in my head has better learned its tune and settled down to play a gentle number which has a familiar but unidentifiable sound. With every passing step I can feel strength returning to my body.
‘You okay?’ The chief looks at me with scant concern.
I toss him a grin. ‘Fine. It’s just a while since I’ve been hiking.’
‘From what I’ve heard it’s a while since you done much but drink yourself stupid.’
His words sting. I respect him, but from his tone I can tell I’m losing his respect. I could make hollow promises about never drinking again, but neither of us would believe them.
He stops walking and looks at my face. ‘This hike is helping you. Your eyes are a damn sight clearer than they were when I first saw you.’
‘You should try looking at them from my side.’ I set off agai
n, making sure I set a brisk pace. He may be the chief of police and a man I respect, but I’m too old to accept lectures from anyone.
We’re both quiet as we walk. My thoughts are on what lies ahead – as I’m sure are his. So far, we’re working on descriptions of the scene only. I catch a whiff of cooked meat and have to fight a gag reflex. I hear the chief give a big sigh and know he’s caught it too.
He pulls a tub of vaporub from his pocket and dabs some on his top lip before offering it to me. It’s a trick used by law enforcement officers and coroners the world over.
I take it and thank him. The strong fumes of the vaporub clear my sinuses with a minty aroma, but they can’t eradicate the scent I’ve already caught.
We press on. A natural reluctance to face what lies ahead slows our pace a little, but not enough to stop us.
Voices carry to us. They’re engaged in conversation, but we can’t make out what they’re saying or see the people they belong to.
‘Teasle, Mavers, is that you I can hear?’
‘Yes, Chief.’ Two cops appear from behind the trees. The way they’re dusting the seat of their pants tells us how seriously they’ve taken their guard duty.
As the chief berates the two men for their dereliction of duty, my eyes are drawn to a huge oak tree. Four charred crosses hang from one of its lower branches. On each cross is a blackened, twisted body.
5
The chief instructs his men to put crime scene tape from tree to tree in a fifty feet radius of the giant oak.
I stand in silence beside the chief. Neither of us comment on the horror before us. From where we are there’s no way to conduct a close inspection, but I’m not sure either of us wants to get any nearer. There’s always the danger we’ll contaminate vital evidence which will either thwart the investigation or allow a slippery lawyer to have his clients acquitted.
There’s a strange eeriness to the area. There’s none of the birdsong I heard on the way up; the only sound is a gentle breeze rustling the upper branches of the trees. The smell of burnt pork, hanging in the air, threatens to evict what little alcohol the hike hasn’t removed from my system. The lack of animal presence in the area makes me wonder if they can sense the evil which ended four lives. Even the flies and insects, which have been ever present in the forest, are missing.
I examine the ground first; the action nothing more than a distraction to delay the moment when I have to look at the crosses and their grisly burden. Everything I’m looking for is missing. I see no obvious footprints and no empty cans used to transport gasoline or other accelerants.
When I scan the ground below the crosses, I see burnt needles where burning clothing has dropped from the crosses.
The fact there is more than one person involved in this is obvious. The crosses dangle two feet above the ground, hanging from wire ropes thrown over a sturdy branch. The other ends of the wire ropes are shackled to chains which are wrapped around the base of other trees. No one man could haul a body on to a cross and then fit the shackle. Therefore there must be more than one person involved. My guess is at least four.
I don’t want to but, unable to think of another reason to delay the moment, I turn my attention to the body on the nearest cross. There are large nails protruding from each wrist and both ankles. The body is nothing more than a twisted, blackened husk. It doesn’t take much to imagine their pain and terror as they were nailed to the cross and incinerated. The agonised contortions remain in death, and their mouth is open in a wide scream.
Beside me, I notice the chief shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Well?’
His one word carries every emotion I’m feeling, including the determination to find whoever did this and punish them.
I shrug, unable to tell him the one thing he wants to know. ‘It could be them. If my memory serves me right the bodies look to be about the right size for the Fourniers, but I’m loathe to make any definitive identification in case I get it wrong.’
‘I don’t expect any more than that.’ He wipes his face with one hand and kneads his temple with the other. ‘What other thoughts do you have?’
‘That whoever did this was organised enough to bring the wire ropes, crosses, nails, chains and some kind of accelerant with them. There were also enough of them to haul the crosses up and secure them in place. They also policed the area when finished. There’s not a footprint or tyre mark to be seen anywhere. The cleanliness of the scene makes me wonder if the killers used branches to sweep the forest floor.’
‘That’s a given. What else did you get?’
I pick my words with care. ‘The burning of the bodies on crosses speaks to me of racial hatred. I hate to say it, but if that is the Fourniers on those crosses then you’re looking at a possible revival of the Ku Klux Klan.’
‘The last time I heard of them being proactive was the early eighties.’
‘Maybe so.’ I look into his eyes. ‘But if a black family has been crucified and then incinerated it’s got to either be Klan, or someone trying to make us think it’s Klan activity.’
‘Us? There’s no us in this, Boulder. You’re here in the hope you can make a provisional ID on the bodies. I don’t want to drag a member of your buddy’s family down to the morgue to make a formal identification only to find out I’ve distressed the wrong family. If you can’t do that you’re not involved.’
‘If it is the Fourniers, do you think Alfonse and I are going to sit back and let Lieutenant Farrage lead the investigation? He’s already dismissed the possibility a black family were abducted, and now you’re up here with four victims whose deaths bear all the hallmarks of a racial crime. We’ll be investigating the disappearance of the Fourniers, and, if that’s them,’ I jab a finger towards the oak while staring into his eyes, ‘we’ll be investigating their deaths too.’
He sighs, long and low. ‘I cannot allow you anywhere near this investigation. The last time you got involved, you killed the main suspect.’
‘Bull. I defended myself when a serial killer tried to add me to his list of victims.’ I lower my tone to a more reasonable one. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but I believe they will turn out to be the Fourniers on those crosses. You know as well as I do, Lieutenant Farrage isn’t up to leading an investigation of this scale. If it is the Fourniers we’ll give you every possible assistance. If it isn’t, we’ll keep out of your way and let Farrage screw things up.’
‘You don’t get to set the terms around here, Boulder.’
‘Neither do you. You still haven’t been able to hire a decent detective, have you?’ It’s a low blow. Mayor Farrage will always protect his son, and everything the chief tries to replace him will always be thwarted. ‘Look, Chief. You’ve been dealt a poor hand you can’t fold on. Save the bluffing for others and accept a better card if it comes your way.’
‘Damn you, Boulder. Even when you’re recovering from four days spent in a drunken fug you make sense.’ He fronts me up, but there’s no threat in his body language. ‘If it’s them, we’ll exchange information. If it’s not, and your buddy’s family turn up, you may well find yourself deputised.’
I nod. More from a feeling I need to make a gesture than any great sense of agreement to his proposed deputation. ‘Can we go closer, see if we can find anything to help with an ID?’
His lips purse as he considers the trade-off between getting information sooner and the possibility we damage the crime scene.
‘Step only where I step.’ He takes measured strides towards the cross bearing the largest body.
I understand his logic but I have more knowledge of the potential victims. ‘Chief. If you’re going towards the biggest body thinking it’s Darryl, you’re mistaken. Sherrelle is the taller of the two.’
He changes direction without comment.
I follow him, taking care to step where he does. My eyes flicking between the ground and the stomach-churning scene before me.
Rage is building within me. That anyone could have committed such a despicable act
as this is beyond my comprehension. Whether or not it’s Alfonse’s relatives on those crosses, I believe the victims will have been selected because of their skin colour.
What makes it worse is that two of the bodies are notably smaller than the others. It’s bad enough for adults to be murdered, but the killing of children elevates an already terrible crime to one which has a horrific intensity.
The chief stops and examines the body on the cross. Using a gloved hand, he spins the cross so he can see every angle. The body is wider than the lumber used to make the cross.
There’s less burn damage on the back and the remains of a pair of pants show. The chief tries to pull something from the pocket but the material comes away in his hand. He snorts in disgust until he turns the material over. Half visible through the soot-blackened grime is a hand-sewn label.
I’m not close enough to read it, but the chief is. When he speaks there’s sorrow filling his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Boulder. The name on this label is Darryl Fournier.’
My eyes close as the confirmation of identity sinks in. Not only has my best friend lost family members in the most horrible fashion. There’s the added insult of the fact they may have been targeted because of their skin colour.
‘I take it you’ll need to do a formal ID on them all?’
‘We will. The label is enough to point us in the right direction, but we’ll have to get the coroner to match DNA from each body with samples taken from their home.’
I know what that will entail. They’ll collect some personal items to get test samples of the Fournier’s DNA. Tooth and hairbrushes will be their best options.
Officer Teasle comes across. ‘Chief. I’ve just heard the coroner has arrived and the CSI team are on their way.’
‘Thanks. You and Mavers are to stay here and guard the scene from wild animals and other hunters. I’ll send someone to relieve you later.’
