by BJ Bourg
Before she could tell me, I heard a sharp voice hollering above the sound of the raucous crowd waiting for the band to crank up again. We both glanced around. People were everywhere, making it hard to see who had been yelling. We moved closer to the food booths and I heard the voice again. This time it was closer and louder.
“Chief! Has anyone seen the chief?” a man called.
I finally saw him and pointed. “There!”
The man was large and wore an oversized T-shirt that was soaked in sweat. His jogging pants sagged. He paused for a second to lean over and take a breath, and then he hollered again.
As I followed Susan through the crowd, I caught sight of Melvin Saltzman, one of the nightshift officers, and Takecia Gayle, one of the dayshift officers, approaching from the area of the rides. Like Susan and me, they were working extra duty for the fair. They had also heard the man yelling and were moving in on him, too.
Melvin and Takecia reached the man first and I heard Takecia ask him what was going on. The man seemed surprised by her thick Jamaican accent, but he quickly dismissed it and pointed over his shoulder toward the rides. “My relief never showed up—well, I was his relief, but he never came back to relieve me from relieving him.”
Takecia stepped back when Susan walked up and allowed her to take over.
“Can you repeat that,” Susan asked, “but this time in English?”
“Chester—the guy I relieved for lunch—he’s missing.”
“First off, what’s your name?”
“I’m Bart…like Bart Simpson, but not. I work for the carnival. Chester’s been working here for years and he’s never missed a shift. I relieved him for lunch like I always do, but he never came back to his work station.”
Susan pulled out her phone and glanced at the time. “It’s quarter to two. What time did you last see him?”
“Noon, or a little after.”
“How long was his break supposed to be?”
“An hour.” Bart rubbed his messy, sweat-soaked hair. “I really think something bad happened to him.”
“Why would you think that?” Susan asked. “He’s not even an hour late for his shift yet. Hell, if I started panicking every time Clint was an hour late getting home, I’d have gray hair by now.”
“It’s not just that.” Bart shifted his eyes from Susan to the rest of us, and then back to Susan. “Someone wanted him dead.”
CHAPTER 3
According to Bart, some “large and beefy” man had accused Chester of groping his wife while she was getting on the Battle Swing—a popular ride at the yearly festival—and the man had come looking for Chester.
“Chester had already left for lunch and the man looked seriously pissed,” Bart had said, “so I told the man he had already left for the day. The fair is a family event, you know, so I didn’t want there to be a scene. Well, the man said he was going to find Chester and he said he was going to kill him.”
Susan had pressed him on whether or not he was sure the man used the word kill, and Bart said he was positive. Susan asked for Chester’s age, description, and if Bart had a picture of him.
“Well, he’s definitely in his early sixties. He mentioned once that his birthday’s in September—the thirtieth, I think.” Bart paused and scratched his belly as he thought for a moment. “He’s a lanky fellow. Not much for shaving, that one. I only saw him clean-shaven once, and that was about three years ago. I think he had some kind of hot date.”
“Please continue,” Susan said. “What was he wearing? How tall is he? Does he have any tattoos?”
“No tattoos. He’s about five-ten. Like I said, he’s lanky. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes. Um, he usually just wears plain jeans and a T-shirt. Nothing fancy. His jeans usually have holes in them—and not the kind you pay for—and his shirt is usually stained.”
“Is his hair long or short?” Susan asked.
“It’s short, but kind of messy.”
“What about a picture? Do you have one of him that you keep in your wallet or on your phone or something?”
Bart scrunched his face and stared sideways at Susan. “Why would I keep a picture of Chester in my wallet?”
“It’s a joke—do you have a picture of him at all?”
Bart shook his head.
Susan turned away and made a quick call to the police department, asking that Beth Gandy, our weekend dispatcher, run a driver’s license query on Chester so we could get a picture of him. After about a minute, she frowned into the phone. “Are you sure?” she asked. When she hung up, she shook her head. “What kind of sixty-year-old man doesn’t have a driver’s license?”
“I don’t know much about him,” Bart admitted. “I see him once a year for the carnival. He’s a hard worker and he’s always on time, so the bosses keep hiring him on.”
“What about the bosses?” I asked. “Do they have a contact number for him or his family? Maybe he just checked out and went home or he quit.”
“Chester doesn’t quit a job. He’s old-fashioned in that way. Claims to always finish what he starts. As for phones, I know he has a cell phone, but I don’t know his number. I doubt anyone in his family has a phone. I heard him tell a woman once that he lives off the land. I’m not sure what he meant by that, but when she asked if she could call him, he told her his cell doesn’t get service where he lives. When she asked how he could live without cell service, he told her that he gets everything he needs from nature.”
Susan chewed on her lower lip, studied our surroundings. Finally, she asked Bart if he knew where Chester lived.
He turned and pointed toward the outer edges of the fairgrounds to the east, where the swamps were dark and ominous. “All I know is he comes out of those trees in the morning and he disappears in that direction in the evening.”
Susan glanced at Melvin. “Are there any houses back there?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen—well, heard about.” He rubbed his brow. “When I was little, all the kids in town were forbidden from going in those swamps. Our parents told crazy stories about an ancient clan of cannibals who lived off the land and only came to town to snatch up children to use for keeping their tribe fed.” He took a breath. “Those stories served their purpose, I guess, because I’ve never heard of anyone going in there. I certainly stayed away.”
“Are you saying you’ve never gone in those swamps?” My voice was incredulous. “Like, never?”
“I’ve been about a hundred yards in,” Melvin explained, “up to Forbidden Bayou, but never farther than that. I’ve never even launched in that bayou.”
Susan addressed Bart again. “What about the man who was searching for Chester—what did he and his wife look like?”
“Like I said, he was real beefy. He looked ’roided out. His hair was curly and light-colored. His wife is hard to miss. She’s real tall—a few inches taller than him—and she has long blonde hair and long, tanned legs. Her eyes are so green you can almost see through them.”
Susan jotted down some notes. “What were they wearing?”
“He wore jeans and a red tanktop that was about two sizes too small for him, and she wore shorts that were so short her ass cheeks were hanging out—excuse my French—and a skin tight tanktop. I think it was red like her husband’s.” Bart stopped for a minute, and then raised a finger. “Oh, and they have a kid. A little girl, I think. She was tall enough to get on the ride, but I’m not sure how old she was. Eight, maybe?”
I surveyed the thick crowd and turned to Susan. “Well?” I asked. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s spread out and search for them,” she said. “From the sounds of it, none of them will be hard to find.”
I nodded and walked toward the far end of the fairgrounds where the Battle Swing was located. I wanted to start at the last place Chester was seen and work my way out from there. Meanwhile, Susan headed for the dance area, Melvin took to the food booths, and Takecia seemed drawn to the swamplands to the east. I wanted to holler after h
er to wait for backup as she walked in that direction, but I knew she could handle herself. Back when Susan was competing as a mixed martial artist, Takecia was her training partner, and they could both throw-down with the best of them.
When I reached the large mechanical swing, I strode to the worker’s station and looked around. A young kid wearing greasy jeans was leaning against the barricade, waiting for riders to come along. I nodded at him and looked from there to the dance floor, which was about a hundred yards away. There were a smattering of other rides and the ticket stand between me and the dance floor. While a few kids ran around from ride to ride, most of the people were under the pavilion.
“You looking for somebody?” asked the young kid.
Without looking in his direction, I nodded. “I’m looking for Chester Raymond. Have you seen him?”
“Not since earlier.”
I turned to face him. “What time earlier?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe noon, or something after that.”
That got my attention, and I asked where he’d seen him.
The kid pointed in the direction of the parking area. “He was walking that way when I saw him. He looked to be in a hurry.”
“Like he was being chased?”
“No, like he needed to take a piss or something.”
I grunted in thought. Between the rides and the parking lot, about forty yards away, there was a row of portable restrooms. Could it be?
Before I walked off, I asked the kid if he’d seen a tall blonde with a muscle-bond dude.
“Yeah, she’s hard to miss.” He nodded in the same direction Chester had gone. “They went that way. I think they left, because I haven’t seen her in a while—and trust me, I was looking for her.”
I thanked him and headed toward the green portable restrooms, approaching from the rear. There was one row of seven units and when I came around to the front, I saw that two of them were locked. I walked to the first one, which was all the way to the left, and gently knocked on the door. “Hello, Chester?”
“It’s occupied,” called a female voice, seemingly irritated. “Can’t you see it’s locked?”
I apologized and checked the units that were unlocked. They were all empty. I then stepped back, studying the one in the middle. Should I knock or wait to see if someone comes out?
I shrugged and stepped forward, knocking once more. “Mr. Raymond, are you in there?”
Nothing.
I knocked again. “Chester Raymond…are you inside?”
Still nothing.
“If you don’t answer, I’m coming in,” I warned, lifting my fist to give a final knock. I stopped when something caught my eye. It was about chest-high on the outside of the door to the portable restroom. I leaned closer. Is that a hole? I touched it with my finger and then stepped back to survey the rest of the door. Holy alligator scat!
There were eight tiny holes in the plastic door and they looked like bullet holes—possibly a .22 caliber. I pounded fiercely on the door while reaching for the phone in my pocket.
“This is my final warning,” I proclaimed loudly. “I’m coming in if you don’t say something.”
There was no movement and no response from inside. I tried to peer through the tiny holes, but it was impossible to see inside. I called Susan and told her what I’d found. “I think someone’s inside and I think they’re in trouble. I’m breaking it open.”
“I’m with Melvin,” Susan said hurriedly. “We’re on our way!”
I dropped my phone into the pocket of my pants, grunting at the thought of working a crime scene in full police uniform. I was the police department’s chief investigator—serving at the pleasure of the mayor, Pauline Cain, and answering only to her—and my normal dress code consisted of slacks or jeans, a button-down shirt, my pistol, and a pair of handcuffs. When Susan asked me to help out with the festival, I decided to wear my dress uniform like the other officers for the sake of fairness…I was now regretting that decision.
Shoving my fingertips in the crack of the door, I tried to pry it open. My fingers slipped free and I cursed out loud. I knew the only thing securing the door was a plastic slide bar, so it couldn’t be that hard to break open. I tried to force more of my fingers through, but I could only get the very tips into the crack.
People started to congregate and I could hear some of them speculating about my reasons for trying to break into the bathroom. I heard one lady surmise there was probably a drunk person passed out on the toilet, while someone else guessed a young child was locked inside.
I continued struggling with the door until I heard Susan’s voice calling from over my right shoulder. “Watch out, Clint—Melvin’s got his tire iron.”
I sighed in relief and stepped back, wiping sweat from my forehead. The day had begun nice and cool, but, in the middle of the afternoon and out here in the sunshine, it now felt like the polyester on my uniform was melting.
I watched as Melvin stabbed the business end of his lug wrench deep into the crack and gave a tug. Susan was telling the crowd to back away and give us room when the door popped open. Before I could see inside, I heard someone in the crowd gasp…and when I stepped around the door, I did, too.
“Damn, Susan, I don’t think we’re getting married next Sunday.”
CHAPTER 4
Susan wasn’t amused. “We’re getting married even if we have to quit our jobs. We can beg for them back afterward, but nothing’s stopping us from walking down the aisle this time.”
I nodded silently as I stared down at the body of Chester Raymond. I’d seen murder victims in many different positions and in all types of locations during my years working as a homicide detective in the city of La Mort, as well as my time here in Mechant Loup, but I’d never seen someone who was murdered on the toilet. If I could think of a more embarrassing way to get my ticket punched, it wasn’t coming to me.
Chester had apparently removed his shirt and shoes and dropped his pants to use the restroom. His shoes were on the floor in the cramped area and I could see a small plastic bag protruding from one of them. Susan pointed at the plastic platform next to the toilet seat, where his left hand had come to rest. “Is that a joint?”
It sure looked like one, and I said so.
I couldn’t make out Chester’s facial features because his chin was resting on his chest. I also couldn’t tell if a bullet had hit him in the face, but there was no mistaking the seven entry wounds in his torso. His chest and stomach were pale, so the brownish streaks of dried blood that had drained from the bullet holes were easy to see.
I looked at where his right hand dangled and saw a lighter inches away on the floor, and there was a small Bible nearby. I scowled when I realized the marijuana had been rolled using pages from the Good Book. “Maybe if he would’ve been reading it instead of ripping pages from it, he might still be alive,” I mumbled.
Susan heard me. “Yeah, I remember hearing about a cop once who used to carry a Bible in his shirt pocket. Well, one day he was shot and the Bible stopped the bullet. Who knows…if Chester here would’ve been holding it up to read, it might’ve caught the fatal bullet.”
“And it would’ve saved our wedding,” I murmured.
“I swear, if you say that again…” Susan warned.
“Well, then, I need to get to work and solve this murder so you won’t have to walk down the aisle by—”
“Oh, man,” Takecia said when she walked up behind us. “That doesn’t look good.”
After fixing me with a hard stare, Susan turned to her. “Can you rope off this entire area and make sure the onlookers keep their distance while I help Clint with the scene?”
“Sure thing, Chief,” Takecia said, reaching for the crime scene tape Melvin was handing her. There weren’t many onlookers in this area. The music was still going strong and we could almost feel the earth shaking from the pounding of the dancers.
“Where do you want me?” Melvin asked.
Susan pointed out toward
the small crowd that had gathered. “Start collecting everyone’s name and contact information. I know you won’t be able to get everyone, but try to get as many as possible.”
As they hurried off, I took a step closer to the portable restroom and visually examined the wall above and behind Chester’s body. I then walked around to the outside of the back wall and carefully ran my hand along its surface.
“What is it?” Susan asked when she joined me. “Are you looking for an exit hole?”
“Yeah. If I can line up at least two of the shots, it should point me in the general direction of the killer.” There were no holes in the area directly behind where the body would’ve been if sitting upright. I reached a little higher and felt around that area. I nodded triumphantly when my fingers brushed against the hard plastic protruding outward in a small circle. It was about six feet above the ground and would’ve missed Chester when he was sitting on the toilet. I pointed it out to Susan. “This is the eighth bullet—the only one that missed. I’ll be able to line it up with the high shot in the door.”
We returned to the front and I studied the seven-shot bullet pattern in Chester’s torso. It matched the seven-shot pattern in the door, but the pattern in the door was a few inches higher, so it meant Chester had slid slightly after he was shot. When he did slide, his knees had made contact with the wall on either side of the door and helped prop him in place.
While Susan stayed near the body, I walked to the parking lot and dug my crime scene box out of my Tahoe. On the walk back, I saw Melvin interviewing a family of four. I stopped and asked him if there had been any sign of the hulk and the blonde.
“It seems they left shortly after the altercation, because a man saw them walking toward the parking lot.”
“What time was that?”
“About twelve-thirty, give or take a few minutes.”
I started to walk away, but a thought occurred to me. “Melvin, can you find out if anyone was filming with their phones or taking pictures between twelve and one-thirty?”
