by S. L. Hebert
SINS FOR TRUTHS
THE CASE FILES OF LOGAN ST. MARTIN
S.L. HEBERT
Sins for Truths
The Case Files of Logan St. Martin
Copyright © 2018 by S.L. Hebert
All rights reserved.
No part in this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination to provide a sense of authenticity, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The dialogue is drawn from the author’s mind’s eye and is not to be interpreted as real.
Cover Design: Ebook Covers Galore
Formatting: Decadent Designs by Dee
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Connect with the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to take this time to thank my Beta Readers, Danika Mizell, and Shelly Moore. Your constant support and input is what helped to make my story come to life. I’m truly blessed to have you, not only as readers, but as friends.
To my proofreader, Mary Meredith, you rock! Your hard work and wonderful advice helped guide me through. I will always be grateful to have you in my corner.
To all family and friends, I love you. You are always by my side, cheering me on. Your love and support is unwavering.
To my children, I love you until time stands still. Thank you for your patience and love. I’m thankful for every second of everday I have with the two of you.
Homicide Detective Logan St. Martin has quietly spent the last month tossing around serial killer John Broussard’s proposal in her head. She’s listened to how his lawyer calls it a request, the lieutenant calls it a proposition, her partner and lover calls it outright bullshit, and she silently calls it a game. Hell, she’s even secretly given it a name: “Sins for Truths”. After all the agonizing and deliberating, she’s decided she’s going to play.
It seems like only yesterday when Det. St. Martin barely escaped from the barn of serial killer John Broussard. Ever since that night when he was apprehended, he’s been requesting an interview with her, wanting to cut a deal. He’s willing to give up one body for every truth she’s willing to reveal from her horrific childhood, a past she’s managed to keep hidden from the rest of the world, buried way down deep in her soul. The question she now finds herself pondering over is, how will she survive once the truth comes to light?
A few weeks later, after a few unexpected surprises, Logan decides to play. She finds herself sitting in an interview room, listening to the grizzly tale of a murder John is claiming to have committed. He speaks of torture and mutilation as if it’s the daily special off the lunch menu.
Reluctantly, he’d agreed to reveal the location of one body in an act of good faith, per her request. The body was supposedly discarded along Bayou Teche, located in Franklin, Louisiana, John’s hometown. It’s almost ironic that the town where he started his crimes is also the place where it all came to an end.
After listening to his gruesome tale, Logan finds herself pacing on the other side of the looking glass. As she hopes and waits for a word from the search and rescue team out in Franklin, La, she begins to feel herself wanting to back out of the deal; maybe she’s not ready for this, or he could be pulling everyone’s chain and sending them on a wild goose chase.
The thoughts continue to plague Logan until she receives a call from Homicide Det. Jacob Tyler in Franklin, saying a body was in the exact spot John said it would be. He hesitantly goes on to inform her the male corpse contains a note, sewn inside the mouth. She curiously asks what the note says, then soon comes to regret it.
Det. Tyler informs Logan their medical examiner notified them the note was placed inside a plastic bag and is addressed to her, saying, “Tell the truth, or there will be more bodies.” Instantly, she wants to know if the body has been deceased for long. When she’s told no, she realizes there’s another killer on the loose. Looking back into the glass mirror with the phone still to her ear, Logan finds herself frozen in time as shock from the news starts to consume her. Cold chills begin running up and down her spine, along with a numb tingling sensation on her skin.
Replaying his confession over and over in her mind, she thinks back to how he was so casual and carefree, describing how he punished the new victim. It was as if he was there, but that’s impossible. Numerous questions start fumbling around in her head, but only three are important to her in this very moment. How did Serial Killer John Broussard know about the new body? Who is he working with on the outside? And where are the victims from his past, the ones he claims to have killed before his father?
Michael
As I lie in bed, I find myself watching the woman I’m deeply falling in love with finally sleep. It’s become a routine of mine ever since the night we caught John Broussard in the rundown barn. Logan has nightmares almost every night, tossing and turning in her sleep. There have been many nights where she starts rambling, calling out, and screaming; but, most of the time she doesn’t wake up, managing to navigate her way through the nightmares. Every so often she sits up drenched in sweat, and I find myself having to hold her till she realizes it’s all over and she’s safe.
I’ll always remember that night in the barn as the worst time of my life. Never while growing up could I have imagined the events that unfolded before my very eyes on that horrific day. To finally meet my birth mother was a big deal in itself. Then to learn my biological father was William Broussard completely shocked me, to say the least. Topping it off, I find out my half-brother is the murderer we’ve been looking for and he abducted my half-sister, which led to her death.
Still, here in this moment, a splintering feeling runs up and down my spine as I stare up at the ceiling. The horrors revealed and cast down upon us almost ended up being my and Logan’s demise.
Instantly, my mind turns back to the moment when my brother shot his mom at point blank range in the head, standing only three feet in front of us. My skin tingles at the thought of the blood spatter landing down on our flesh like raindrops, settling in the reality that none of us were supposed to make it out alive.
As my visions continue, I start remembering how I woke up in the barn after being knocked out. My body starts to tense as memories of the worst part of the night leap forward, crashing in over and over like waves off the ocean. I can see Logan on the cold, dusty floor of the barn, curled up in the fetal position. She’s covered in blood-soaked clothes and barely moving. My eyes glaze upward to see my half-brother holding some type of whipping tool, ranting on and on above her about how h
e wants to know her secrets, claiming they’re both lost souls. I vaguely remember forcing my aching body off the ground and rushing to stop him, tackling him to the floor with every ounce of energy I could muster.
Once we hit the dirt floor, everything became a blur, up until I heard the gunshot ring through the air. I managed to turn my head and focus my eyes, seeing a vision I never would have expected: my mother, standing in the opening of the barn, brandishing a weapon. The realization of the fact that she saved our lives was almost too much to consume all at one time. And she was a good shot, to say the least, hitting John in the shoulder from about twenty-five feet away. I will forever be thankful she didn’t miss and somehow managed not to kill him, only because we know he has other bodies out there and we need him for the information. If it weren’t for this reason, she could have ended him on that dreadful night and I wouldn’t have shed one tear for him.
The remainder of that night passed quickly. We all ended up at the hospital, including Lt. Henry Clark and Sheriff Rolland Trahan; they seemed to have figured out some of what was going on and decided to head up to Franklin. After they arrived at the hospital and saw the shape Logan and I were in, they kept the questions to a minimum, deciding to turn to the local police for most of their answers about what happened. My mother also stayed around to answer questions and give her statement.
Once we were examined, the doctor informed me I would need stitches, then proceeded to tell me how lucky I was to be alive. If the knife would have landed less than an inch over, it would have punctured one of my vital organs. This was the case for at least two of my deep stab wounds. Logan, on the other hand, ended up with two fractured ribs and a few stitches. Looking back on the godawful night now, I think we were just thankful to be alive.
We left the hospital after only being there for a few hours, which I’m sure the doctors were grateful for. The local media had filled the entryway of the hospital, trying to get the first crack at the breaking story. Learning they had a serial killer living amongst them sent waves of excitement and fear running through the quiet town. My mother ended up inviting me and Logan to stay at the plantation bed and breakfast with her. We graciously accepted the offer and have been here ever since.
A few days after we were out of the hospital and rested, I ended up having a visitor at the Arlington Plantation. His name was Steven Fletcher, the Chief of Police for Franklin. He needed me to fill out a long form report on the events of the night out at the barn. Once I finished answering all his questions and filling him in on our case in Houma, he informed me that since my half-brother was now incarcerated and the rest of my biological father’s family was gone, I needed to consider hiring a lawyer. He went on to tell me how it’s possible for me to inherit a portion of the property along with my half-brother, who will never see the light of day again.
Remembering now how dumbfounded I was, the idea of owning land that holds so much pain and suffering was not something I wanted. I’m not sure what the laws are on inheritance in the State of Louisiana, but I guess I should check into it. Still, my brother claims to have killed others, and up to now we’re not sure where the bodies are located. For all we know, the bodies could be on the property. I’ve decided to use the possibility that I’m part-owner to my advantage. As it is, my brother keeps telling his lawyer he will only talk to Logan, and if I have any say, his request won’t be happening anytime soon.
So, for over a month Logan and I have been going out to the property in hopes of stumbling upon something that would lead us to the other bodies. The inheritance consists of many acres, and the truth is, the bodies could be buried anywhere in the overgrown wooded area. We have turned the inside of the house and barn upside down. The discoveries we’ve found explain a lot about the level of torture everyone endured at the hands of my father. I’m amazed how he could keep the whole ordeal going for as long as he had. That is, until my brother put an end to our father’s life.
Which brings my thoughts to two weeks ago, when I chose to have my father’s body exhumed. I contacted the local sheriff’s office and spoke with one of Franklin’s Homicide detectives, Jacob Tyler. He’s the acting Lead Detective on the Franklin case, dealing with my brother for the murder of his mother, Mrs. Elaina Broussard, and our father, William Broussard. The conversation we proceeded to have was about how my step-brother confessed to Mrs. Broussard the night at the barn that his father didn’t die of a heart attack, claiming he killed him and buried his body in a makeshift grave out in the woods. We discussed how William Broussard’s body needed to be exhumed and autopsied. My need to know how my father died was starting to eat away at me on the inside, and I needed to resolve the situation.
Without hesitation he agreed, and the next day we were all out on the property, digging him up, along with the crime scene investigators. We all ended up being surprised when the old wooden box was lifted out of the ground and opened. Even the coroner gasped once the lid was off as we laid our eyes on a severely damaged and decomposing body. It was basically rotting tissue and bones, but what stood out to me and everyone else was that the hands and feet were gone. I remember the only thing Logan said as she peered into the box was, “Son of a bitch!”
I knew the minute she whispered the words, she must have had all kinds of ideas about what happened to the hands and feet running through her mind. I decided not to ask her in front of the other detectives, choosing to wait, giving her time to tell me what she thought when she was ready. Besides, after all she has been through, the last thing I want to do is make her start trying to solve anything dealing with the case; I’m not certain her mind could handle it.
Thinking on it now as I watch her sleep, I know she is not ready mentally to deal with the whole scope of things; not if the nightmares are continuing regularly. Sadly, we have to return to work in a few days. Our leaves of absence will be up, and the lieutenant’s getting anxious about us wrapping everything up since John is now sitting in solitary confinement, awaiting trial. He keeps reminding me about how John is requesting to speak with Logan in exchange for giving up the locations of his other victims.
Slowly, I roll over and check my watch on the nightstand. It’s a little before seven in the morning. I decide to try and creep my way out of the bed without waking up Logan. Moving ever so cautiously and carefully, I manage to make my way to the bathroom without making a sound.
I stop in the doorway for a moment, turning back to admire the view. Logan looks so peaceful and beautiful. I inhale and release a long, deep, silent breath, sending a little prayer up to the Lord, thanking him for giving us another day, then head into the bathroom.
After I start my water running in the shower, I take my shirt off and observe my scars in the mirror. I’ve counted seven, between my arms, chest and back. Most are healing to where they will barely be noticeable, except the two that need stitches; they are more raised and seem to be healing with the scar of a pinkish color. I’m still holding out hope that over time they will continue to fade and turn more of a skin tone color, reminding myself things could have been much worse.
Once I’m finished with my shower, I dress in a white polo shirt and jeans, making sure I look presentable to go downstairs in front of the other guests and have coffee with my birth mother. It’s become sort of a ritual routine every morning. It gives us a chance to catch up on all the years we’ve missed out on. She has taken her time and filled me in on how she ended up here in America. The fact that her father allowed her mother to be a prostitute, so they could save money to send her here on a boat was heartbreaking to hear. I’ve also learned she hasn’t seen them since the day she set sail for a new life. It’s a sad tale of a parent’s undying love for a child. All to come here and end up being tortured by my father, who lied about not having a wife and children. She assures me almost every day that she doesn’t regret coming here and ending up pregnant with me, constantly reminding me that knowing I was alive in the world was enough for her to keep on living and hoping to meet me one day.<
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Walking out of the bathroom, I look over at the bed; Logan is still peacefully sleeping. After slipping on my shoes, I grab my wallet and keys, heading out the door to go find Abigaila.
Logan
It’s been weeks since Miss Messana shot and wounded the serial killer John Broussard on that gruesome night out at the barn, where so many secrets were revealed. Almost unbelievable tales of torture and abuse have been thrust forward into the light, the family’s skeletons forced out of the darkness for the world to see, forever leaving a stain on everyone’s life who was somehow involved in the twisted web of lies. And all of it was started by the hands of a sick and sadistic man named William Broussard, claiming to be practicing the word of God.
From what we’ve learned, he’s the reason John Broussard became detached from reality a long time ago, along with his mother, Elaina Broussard. I guess having Bible verses literally beaten into you for years and years will inevitably do catastrophic damage to a person mentally. I knew the minute I met Mrs. Broussard and listened to her speak that something was off, realizing quickly she wasn’t playing with a full deck.
Now after her death, I know she was without a doubt brainwashed, just not in the same way as her son John. She truly believed, hanging on to every word her husband preached, and continued practicing his beliefs, even after he was gone. I’m not sure if she ever recognized the fact that her ability to adapt and conform to the rules her husband enforced was her way of surviving. The punishments she received over time became her normal way of life.
Somehow, William’s twisted ways had a different effect on his son John. He became obsessed with the Old Testament and ended up becoming worse than his father. I learned long ago people deal with abuse and trauma differently; Mrs. Broussard found her solace in being obedient, while John unleashed his anger and pain on others.
