by Rick Reed
“Officer Barbierre, you have my credentials. You know I’m a detective. I work the Homicide Unit in Evansville. Maybe I can help with this.”
Still no response. The tic had stopped. Calm before the storm.
The thought of Bitty, murdered, mutilated, her destroyed face, and just in the other room, boiled up, and he lost his temper. “Okay. I’ll go first,” Liddell said. “Did you know that using steroids shrinks the testicles and alters your voice?” Liddell watched Barbierre and thought he could detect the slightest tightening of Barbierre’s jaw muscles.
Liddell said, “I knew a guy whose testicles shrunk to the size of little marbles. And he talked like Michael Jackson.”
Still nothing.
“Eventually his penis shrank too. Not like jumping into a cold swimming pool type shrinkage. I mean ‘get the tweezers out’ type of.”
Barbierre’s fist slammed into the side of Liddell’s head. He was knocked against the arm of the couch and leaned there trying to clear his head. Barbierre didn’t just look strong, he was strong.
Liddell scooched himself upright again and said, “Okay. I’ll shut up.”
Barbierre stared at him with undisguised hatred.
“It really did disappear,” Liddell said. “We called him Double Dick, but that was just a joke. I mean because he didn’t have a dick. That was the joke, see?”
Officer Barbierre moved so fast Liddell had no time to react before he was shoved against the back of the couch and shuddered with fifty thousand volts from the Taser racing through his body. His breath was coming in gulps when it was over, and he could taste metal and smell burning flesh. He would have more burn marks if he didn’t shut up.
Liddell felt like he was going to vomit again, but fought it back. Barbierre’s eyes gave nothing away. The lights were on, but no human was home. It was as if none of this had just happened.
Barbierre squatted and his face was mere inches from Liddell’s when he said, “You killed a cop. In my book, you’re already dead. I caught you in the act and tried to Taser you. When that didn’t work, I had to shoot you. A dozen times. And I can make it look true if you say another word.”
“Well, well. Look who have we here, Barbie.” The man’s voice came from the doorway between the living room and kitchen.
Liddell couldn’t believe his eyes.
“I got him, Detective Troup,” Barbie said proudly. “He came at me and tried to head-butt me so I Tasered him. Dumb move for a cop.”
Barbierre said to Liddell, “Maybe you should just say you blacked out. And when you came to you—you found yourself in here. Is that it? Did you black out after you butchered her?”
Liddell didn’t answer.
Barbierre removed the mirrored-lens aviator sunglasses that set atop his severe crew cut and put them in a case on his gun belt. He pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his waistband and pulled them on. His eyes never left Liddell’s face.
“I guess I’m going to have to teach him some manners.”
“That’s not necessary, Barbie,” Troup said, glancing at the gloves in Barbierre’s hands. “Me and Blanchard are old buddies. We used to work together. Didn’t we, Blanchard?”
“Hello, Bobby,” Liddell said.
Bobby Troup was in his early fifties, tall, skeletal, with sunken eyes the color of faded jeans, pale skin stretched across a too-long face. He held a filterless cigarette between nicotine-stained fingers and brushed some imaginary lint from the lapel of a black suit that draped on him like it was on a clothes hanger. The top of his head was balding, sunburned; the rest was white hair, pulled back in a greasy ponytail. He pulled at a diamond stud earring, sucked down the rest of the cigarette. He dropped the burning butt to the kitchen floor and crushed it with the toe of a shiny black wing-tip shoe.
“Whoops,” he said and lifted his foot, looking down at the black mark.
“Surprised to see me again, Liddell?” Troup asked. His almost lipless mouth twisted into a smirk. “I heard you got married and were playing house in some shithole town up north. Where was it . . . oh yeah. Indiana. Evansville, right?”
Liddell said, “I’ve got nothing against you, Bobby.”
Troup raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you’ve got to say after—what—four, five years?”
“Look. I wasn’t resisting. I found her like that and went outside to call the police. You can check. Officer Barbierre Tasered me in the backyard, handcuffed me, and brought me inside a crime scene. Is that the way things are done now?”
Troup said, “Maybe Barbie caught you in here. Or maybe you were just coming outside. He said you tried to ‘head-butt’ him.”
“He did, Detective Troup,” Barbie said eagerly. “That’s exactly what he did.”
Troup said, “Barbie wouldn’t know you’re some hotshot detective from the big city of Evansville. And even if he knew he would have every right to defend himself.”
Liddell said nothing. He’d let Troup have his jollies so that they would remove the handcuffs and he could find out what happened to Bitty.
Troup continued as if he were admonishing a child. “You were handcuffed for the officer’s safety and for your own. You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.”
“I hear ya’, Bobby. Now take the handcuffs off and ask your questions,” Liddell said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. But I don’t know how much I’ll be able to tell you. I was here a couple of minutes before I made Officer Barbierre’s acquaintance.
“Like always, Blanchard, you’re assuming too much. Old habits die hard, I guess,” Troup said sadly.
“So, you’re not going to let me go?” Liddell asked. “You can check with the lady next door. She saw me come to the back door. She can tell you I didn’t have time to do any of this.”
“Any of what?” Troup asked.
Liddell inclined his head toward the kitchen. “What was done to her. Her face is smashed, and she’s been eviscerated. Whoever did this took their time.”
“So you admit to being near the body?” Troup asked.
Liddell knew he should shut up, but he made the same mistake many criminals make when they’re under pressure or emotional. He said, “I told you I found her. I didn’t touch the body. I stepped inside the kitchen doorway and went back into the yard. You know me, Bobby. Do you really think I’m capable of that? She was my partner.”
“I remember asking that same question of some people I thought were my friends, or if not friends, fellow cops. Grand jury. Fired. Disgraced. So don’t tell me what you’re not capable of doing. Anyone is capable of anything.”
“Look at the Taser burns on my shirt—front and back. And there’s a Taser burn on my neck. And he kicked me in the face for nothing. He took my duty weapon and frog marched me through the kitchen.”
“Is that right, Barbie? You bring him back inside, or was he already inside when you got here?” Troup asked Barbierre.
“That’s what you said to . . .” Barbie stammered, and watched Troup for the correct answer.
Troup lit a cigarette and wagged it up and down like he was conducting an orchestra. Barbie said, “He wasn’t outside, Detective Troup. He was standing in the living room when I got here. He had a gun in his hand and he tried to head-butt me.”
Troup said helpfully, “So you were using that force necessary to apprehend and overcome the force used by the suspect. Isn’t that right, Officer Barbierre?”
“Yes sir,” Barbie said. “He killed a cop. And... he was being an asshole.”
Troup’s lips curved into what would have been a smile on any other face. “Barbie says you were inside when he found you. Barbie doesn’t lie. He’s one of Plaquemine’s finest. Ain’t that right, Barbie?”
Officer Barbierre’s chest seemed to swell at the praise.
Liddell’s fists clenched behind his back. “I’ll try this one more time. I parked in back by Bitty’s car. There’s blood on the gate latch. I opened the gate and saw her back door was standing open. I drew my weapon and appr
oached the house. I saw the door had been kicked open. The dead bolt was gone. Look at it. There’s a boot print on the door. It’s a size ten or eleven and I wear size fourteen. I was concerned for Bitty’s safety. I opened the door and came just inside the doorway. “
“Wait a minute,” Troup said. He dropped the cigarette butt on the floor and kicked it into the kitchen. “You just said the door had been kicked open. And you said you opened the door. Which is it? Did you kick it open? Or maybe you had someone with you?”
Troup pulled a cigarette pack from inside his jacket, shook one out, and lit it with a match. He took a deep drag and let the smoke out slowly and tossed the match into the kitchen.
“Hold on. Hold on,” Troup said. “Even if you look at it from your changing perspective, it doesn’t make sense.” He took another long drag off the cigarette and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. “So, what you’re saying is that you saw your ex-partner dead—and I admit she’s pretty messed up—but you didn’t check the house to see if there was a suspect, or if anyone else was injured? You didn’t call the police. You just go into a crime scene. Did you call out a warning before you went in. ‘Police Department. If someone is in here identify yourself’?”
“No. I didn’t identify myself. I’m not with the local police,” Liddell answered.
“And therein lies the crux of our problem, Blanchard. YOU are not a policeman here in Louisiana. But against all your police training, against all of your experience, you go into a crime scene with a gun in your hand and contaminate everything.”
Liddell said, “You got me there, Bobby. I messed up. I should have checked the house. I could have backed off and called the police to report a break-in. I could have done a lot of things different, but she is—was—my partner. She was my friend. I thought she was in trouble. What if she wasn’t dead, just hurt, and I wasted time waiting for you? Tell me. What would you have done?” His throat constricted, and he could feel his eyes threatening to tear up. “She was family to me, Bobby.”
“If she was family you knew she lived with another woman. That dyke girlfriend of hers, Parnell. What if Parnell was in the house? What if she did this?”
Liddell could feel his face redden with anger. He didn’t like Troup and had no respect for him, and this was part of the reason. He was homophobic and a racist and every kind of foul human possible.
“She and Detective Parnell aren’t living together. Detective Parnell moved out months ago. Bitty lived by herself,” Liddell said.
“Well,” Troup said. “You’re saying that dyke bitch partner of hers killed her and you didn’t. How convenient.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“So you admit you killed her? Where does that leave Parnell?” Troup asked. “You heard him, Barbie. Put that in your report.”
Barbierre took a notebook from his back pocket and scribbled something in it.
“For your information, Liddell, I did know that Parnell and Bitty were no longer shacked up doing the nasty. And I happen to know that Parnell is on vacation in Hawaii, so you can’t put this on her.”
“Maybe he killed her last night. He came back today because he left some evidence behind. I heard killers return to the scene,” Barbie said.
Liddell couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Barbie had the IQ of a turnip.
Troup smiled at Barbie and said, “I’ll make a detective out of you yet, young Master Barbie.”
Liddell said, “Well, you’d better arrest Old Lady Martin, next door. According to your theory she could be the killer.”
Troup cupped a hand beside Barbie’s ear and whispered something. Then Barbie announced, “I’m going next door to talk to Mrs. Martin. Will you be okay here, Detective Troup?”
“I’ll be fine, Barbie.”
Barbie glared at Liddell. “I’ll be right back, Detective Troup.”
When Barbie was gone, Troup said, “Let me see where you claim you were Tasered.” Liddell leaned forward and Troup jerked the two Taser darts out of the skin of his back and Liddell winced.
“Did that hurt?”
“What do you think?”
Troup rolled the darts between his fingers. “I can put them back,” he offered, and when Liddell gave him an incredulous look, he added, “I’m just kidding. I’m not the violent monster you and Bitty made me out to be.”
“If you got something to say, Bobby, just spit it out. Did you blame Bitty for getting fired? Is that what this is about?”
“Are you accusing me?” Troup faced Liddell and asked, “You think I had something to do with Bitty’s death?”
Barbie came back into the front room. “She doesn’t remember anything, Detective Troup. If she called the police, she doesn’t remember.”
“You got anything else to say?” Troup asked Liddell.
Liddell knew there was nothing he could say that would make a difference. Barbie hadn’t been gone long enough to talk to Mrs. Martin, which begged the question, what had Barbie been doing for the few minutes he was out of the room? He thought that whatever he said, Troup would twist it. He obviously wanted Liddell to be the killer. But why?
“Detective Troup, he had a phone in his pocket,” Barbie said and held out an iPhone.
Troup took the phone and punched some buttons, bringing up Liddell’s contacts. “You should put a passcode on here,” he said, and scrolled through screens. “You’ve got Bitty’s phone number and address. And here’s your wife’s number.” Troup continued to scroll through the contacts. “Have you got an attorney in here, Blanchard?”
“Good one, Detective Troup,” Barbie said with a smile.
“If I did he would tell you about the need for a search warrant to go through my phone.”
Troup said, “You always were smart, Blanchard. Let’s see how that works out for you.” To Barbie he said, “Take him to headquarters. I’ll be along.”
“While you’re jerking me around, the real killer is getting away, Troup,” Liddell said.
Barbierre gave him an open-hand slap across the side of the head, causing his eyes to tear up. “You shouldn’t be disrespectful. You call him Detective Troup. He’s a better detective than you’ll ever be.”
Troup said in a feigned admonishing tone, “I appreciate your loyalty, Barbie, but don’t abuse the prisoner.”
“Sorry, Detective Troup. I just don’t like it when someone’s disrespectful of the law.”
“Apologize to Detective Blanchard,” Troup said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Barbie said to Liddell and yanked him to his feet.
“Leave his shoes,” Troup said.
Liddell kicked off his shoes and stood in his socks. “I assume I’m under arrest?”
Troup said, “Officer Barbierre, give my old friend a ride.”
A look passed between Barbie and Troup as Barbie shoved Liddell to the open back door.
“You’re making a mistake, Troup,” Liddell said as he was being led away.
“And no phone calls until I get there,” Troup yelled after them.
“You got it, Detective Troup.”
Chapter Six
Evansville, Indiana
Jack leaned back in his squeaky chair and pushed a pile of papers around his desktop. His spanking by Double Dick had been less painful than he’d expected, but not less irritating. But before Jack had left the office, Dick had said, “I see your wife has taken you back. Try not to screw it up this time, Murphy.”
Jack had turned and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll give it my best effort. Thank you for your concern for my well-being.” How’s that for cool? In the hallway, he’d said, “Screw you, Dick. And the politician you rode in on.”
Now he sat here at his desk and sorted case folders into piles. He and Liddell had been assigned a home invasion burglary a few weeks ago. After some digging through old unsolved cases they had found several dozen more that may or may not be connected. None of the cases had a suspect or a description of a possible suspect. They were a mixture of thef
ts from cars, homes, garages, offices, day-care centers, parking lots, and even churches. Jack had talked to several of the victims. The males’ driver’s licenses and cash were gone but not the billfolds. The women reported missing checks, cash, and jewelry, but their purses were not taken. The suspect would use the men’s driver’s licenses to cash large checks written from one of the female’s accounts.
So Jack had searched police files for thefts matching this pattern and found there were other cases that went back four years. The first year, two; the second year, six. By the third year, the cases were increasing in frequency and the thief no longer limited himself to breaking into vehicles; now he was going inside the homes. Single women occupied the homes, and most had the habit of coming home and putting their purse down on the kitchen table, or just inside the door. The thief would take what they wanted from the purse, and there was no indication a theft had occurred until the bank notified the victim of a problem with their account.
But in the last few months, maybe in half a dozen cases, female victims reported that personal photos had been taken as well. In two of the recent cases, the thief would hang around inside the house and wait to be seen by the victim. If this guy was showing himself, he was working his way up to something more serious than theft. Jack had shown mug shot books to all the victims, but of the ones that saw the thief in their house, all gave differing descriptions. The suspect was a white male, a Hispanic male, even an albino male. Blond hair, brown hair, gray hair, mustache, beard, no facial hair, glasses sometimes. The few things consistent were the height, weight, and age description of the suspect. Over six foot tall, stocky build, late twenties to mid thirties.
Jack was beginning to chart the occurrences when Sgt. Mattingly came into the detective’s office and headed straight for him.
“Those thefts and burglaries you asked me to keep an eye out for,” Mattingly said.
“Yeah. You got something?”
* * *
Sergeant Mattingly may have found the golden egg to break this case. The current home-invasion victim’s name was Gladys Tooley. She was in her early sixties, with tightly permed black hair going gray, slightly on the plus side of plump, but she had been very pretty once upon a time. She told Jack she worked as a secretary for a church downtown. She had come home from shopping for groceries, parked in her driveway, came in the side door to the kitchen, and closed the door but left it unlocked to bring the groceries in. She set her purse on the kitchen table and had to use the restroom. When she came back into the kitchen, the door was open, and the man was standing in the doorway looking at her, grinning, not smiling. She stressed that he wasn’t smiling, but was giving her the eye, to which she added, “You know what I mean.”
