by BJ Bourg
“Where is she now? What happened with the trial?”
“As of the latest article we found, the lady hadn’t been tried. It seems she had a mental breakdown in jail and had to be hospitalized after a failed attempt at suicide. She was deemed incapable of assisting in her own defense and was unable to stand trial. For all we know, she could still be in a mental institution today.”
Bethany was silent for a few moments. “This could all be a coincidence and one might have nothing to do with the other.”
I smiled smugly. “But you haven’t heard the real kicker yet.”
“What is it?”
“The house the cops hit that night—it was located at five-sixteen Cottonwood Street and the family’s last name was James.”
Bethany’s eyes widened. “James five-sixteen!”
“Our killer was pointing us directly to that night—to that incident. And you know what’s even worse?”
“What?”
“I think the sheriff knew all along what it meant. I think they’ve been holding out on us.”
Bethany scowled. “Why would they do that? It would be suicide.”
I glanced over my shoulder to be sure no one had entered the hospital room. “Look, Captain Theriot wouldn’t take a shit without Sheriff Burke approving it. I think Theriot’s been riding the coattails of this investigation waiting for us to make a break in the case. I think they were waiting for us to uncover who’s doing this so they can take him out…kill him to shut him up. I think that woman might have been telling the truth about them hitting the wrong house.”
“I don’t know, London. Those are serious allegations.”
“I know, but it’s the only thing making sense right now. Think about it—Captain Theriot beat us to Wesley Guidry and killed him. If they all told the truth back then, if they didn’t do anything wrong, why kill Wesley? I’ll tell you why—because he was about to expose them. He said he had the only proof about what really happened that night. That means the rest of them are lying.”
“What if this Wesley guy was a nut?”
“Well, this incident definitely happened—we have an ass-load of newspaper articles to prove it—and I can say with confidence there’s a correlation between the incident and the sniper killings. I also believe the sheriff knows more than he’s saying and I plan to confront him when I get back to the office.”
“Do you really think he’ll just come out and admit that twenty years ago they covered up the murder of a baby? During an election year?” She shook her head. “No way. Besides, you’d have to believe every cop out there was dirty and they all lied about that night. Look, you said Captain Landry was like a father to you. Do you really think he’d be involved with something like this?”
I tried to look at the situation from every angle, searching for a hole in my theory, but I couldn’t find one. “Do you know how driven and committed a person has to be to wage war on the police? This sniper has signed his own death warrant and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. He feels his actions are totally justified. To my way of thinking, it can only mean one thing…the cops hit the wrong house and then lied about it. It’s the type of emotionally charged injustice that can lead even a good person to believe he has the right to carry out his revenge.
“If the James family were truly drug dealers, I don’t believe these killings would have started. The sniper would’ve understood the James family was to blame for the death of their own child—they were the ones who brought the police to their home—and it would’ve been the end of it. Sure, whoever he is, he would’ve been distraught, probably for a long time, but he wouldn’t have lived for twenty years just to randomly wage a war against the officers involved with the incident…not unless the allegations the mother raised were true.”
“What if it’s not true, but the killer perceived it to be true and is killing cops for nothing? For something they didn’t do?”
“Ah, that’s certainly a possibility. A perceived injustice can be just as powerful a motivator as an actual injustice.” I smiled. “That’s why I wanted to come here and talk to you. You have a way of bringing order to the chaos that is my brain.”
Bethany held up a hand. “Now, don’t go acquitting them just yet. I’m only saying it’s possible the sheriff and all were telling the truth and we should investigate further before coming to any conclusions. Of course, if they were telling the truth, why would they be so afraid of Wesley Guidry? To the point of having to kill him?”
“You’re right,” I said, nodding in agreement. “Wesley Guidry was definitely killed because he knew too much and he was about to expose them. There’s always the possibility Captain Theriot acted alone, but I seriously doubt it.”
“I agree.”
I sat thoughtful for a moment and then asked, “What would you suggest if we found evidence implicating the sheriff in the commission of a crime?”
“I’d suggest taking him down. It doesn’t matter who you are—if you break the law, you need to pay the price. No one is above the law.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“But I don’t think we’ll ever find any evidence and I know he’ll never confess to anything,” Bethany said. She started to speak again, but broke out into a fit of coughing. She winced in extreme pain. I jumped to my feet, leaned over her and placed my hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She nodded weakly. “They took X-rays, but I haven’t heard from the doctors yet. They think a few ribs are cracked from the impact of the bullets.”
“What about your neck?”
“The bullet went clean through. Like you said, it didn’t hit anything important.” She started to chuckle, but winced again. When the pain had subsided, her eyes turned warm and she reached for my hand. “You saved my life out there—first by giving me the ballistic vest and then when you shot Captain Theriot. After all of this shit is done, I’ll look forward to spending the rest of my life trying to repay you.”
While the prospect of a long-term relationship with Bethany Riggs sounded extremely appealing, it was overshadowed by the guilt I felt. I frowned, staring at my hands. “No, I let you down. I’m the one who placed you in danger. I told you I’d protect you, but I didn’t. If it wouldn’t be for luck, you’d be…” I shook my head. “You’d be dead.”
Bethany squeezed my hand and pulled me close to her. I stared into her moist eyes. “I’m a cop, even though you don’t think I’m a real one,” she chided playfully, “and I’m fully aware of the risks associated with my job. I went into that situation with my eyes wide open and it wasn’t luck that saved my ass—it was you.”
I cracked half a smile. “And what a nice ass it is.”
Bethany feigned shock and lifted her arm to smack my stomach, but suddenly clutched her torso. “Damn, I’ve got to remember this rib.”
“Yeah, I don’t like seeing you—”
A knock at the hospital door behind me interrupted my comment. I turned to see a nurse in pink scrubs. “Hey, can I borrow my favorite patient? We need to redo the X-rays.”
“Sure.” I turned back to Bethany. “Do they know how long you’ll be here?”
Bethany looked at the nurse. “What did the doctor say—a couple of days?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the nurse said. “Once we’re sure there’s no internal damage from the gunshots to the bulletproof vest and we figure out the extent of your rib injury, you should be able to go home.”
I squeezed Bethany’s hand. “I have to go meet with the sheriff. I’m going to tell him what we found and see what he says and how he reacts.”
CHAPTER 32
When I arrived at the main office in Chateau I had to park two blocks away from the building. Other than the cop cars littering the streets and parking lots in close proximity to the sheriff’s office, there were a dozen vans and cars bearing the logos of our local papers, television stations and radio broadcasters. In addition, satellite trucks from each of the major news organizations in the country were
taking up parking space around the office. It was the busiest this street had ever been at five in the morning.
I pushed my way through the mob of reporters gathered on the sidewalks surrounding the building and pulled on the front door. It was locked. As I dug for my keys, cameramen and women shoved their video cameras in my face and reporters rattled off questions.
“Is it true that Captain Assassin is dead?” asked one female reporter. “And that he was one of your own?”
I chuckled, shook my head. As corny as it sounded, the name they’d given the killer was catchy. “How long have y’all been here?” I asked her.
Sensing she might establish a dialogue with me, she leaned in eagerly. “We received the call at eleven and got here twenty minutes later,” she said. Then, quickly, “Is it true? Is the killer dead?”
There was something about this woman I liked. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but I was instantly drawn to her. Maybe it was the way her words tripped off her tongue—suggesting she was new—that made me feel sorry for her. Or maybe I just admired the look of sincerity in her eyes—also suggesting she was new—that was absent from the eyes of the other sharks surrounding me. Whatever it was, I broke standard protocol and spoke to the press. “No, ma’am”—I scanned the surrounding night air—“the killer is not dead. He’s still out there somewhere…waiting for his chance to strike again. And he will strike again.”
“Is it true the entire command staff of the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office will remain hidden in this building until Captain Assassin is captured or killed?”
I checked out her nametag. Kelsey Cavanaugh. “Sorry, Ms. Cavanaugh, I’ve already said too much.”
I shoved the key in the door and pushed it open, leaving a chorus of rapid-fire questions in my wake as I entered the building. I glanced over my shoulder. Kelsey Cavanaugh was still standing there, microphone dangling from her hand, staring at me. I smiled and nodded in her direction before the door shut behind me. I thought I saw her smile back.
“London! Is that you?” Sheriff Burke’s voice hollered from down the hall.
I followed his voice and found him in the conference room. His face was gaunt and cluttered with stubble. His commanders—what was left of them—were seated around the conference table, worry lines cutting deep gouges in their faces. No one spoke when I walked in.
“Close the door,” Sheriff Burke ordered.
I did.
“Tell me you’ve got something. Tell me you know who did this…that you at least have an idea who’s out there hunting us like animals. Tell me anything at all to keep that”—Sheriff Burke pointed toward the front of the building—“mob at bay.”
I surveyed the group, measuring my words. “I don’t know exactly who’s doing this, but I know why it’s happening.”
There were nervous glances around the room; someone coughed softly. Sheriff Burke raised his eyebrows impatiently. “Well? Why’s it happening?”
“Does the name Lenny James mean anything to y’all?” I asked. The gasps that sounded around the room provided the answer I needed. I continued. “It seems every officer who was involved in that case is being targeted. Particularly, every officer who testified in federal court.” I let the information sink in.
Sheriff Burke had walked to one end of the room and stood with his back to the rest of us, staring at the blank television screen. “How sure are you?”
“Positive. We found a hit list taped to the door of Wesley Guidry’s office.” I pointed around the room. “All of your faces were on the list except for you, Captain Boutin.” I paused with my finger pointed in his direction. He sighed audibly, relief pushing the color back into his cheeks. The room stood quiet for what seemed like too long. I finally broke the silence. “Sheriff, what happened out there that night? Really?”
The sheriff waved his hand to the rest of the officers. “Leave us alone.”
The commanders stood and hurried out the door. When we were alone and the door closed, Sheriff Burke took a seat at the end of the conference table and nodded for me to sit. I did.
“That night is a night many of us have tried to forget. It was definitely not our brightest moment. Anytime a baby is hurt…” Sheriff Burke shook his head somberly.
“Hurt?” I scowled. “Sheriff, I thought that baby was killed.”
“Yeah, regrettably, the baby died. We tried to save him, but there was nothing we could do. The flash bang landed in the crib and the coroner said the explosion killed the baby almost immediately.” Sheriff Burke shook his head. “There’s nothing worse than drug dealers who put their own children in the line of fire.
“Who shot the husband?”
“Michael opened fire first and then Anthony and Matt. They almost had to shoot the wife. She just went crazy. Freaking out. She picked up her husband’s gun. Of course, it was understandable under the circumstances.”
No shit, I thought. “Do you think she still wants to kill some cops?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if she tried once, I’m sure she’s capable of trying again.”
The sheriff scoffed. “That woman was a clumsy housewife. She’s definitely no skilled assassin.”
“Maybe she hired someone, or there’s another member of the family out for blood.”
“We tried to locate some family members after the incident, but we couldn’t. They weren’t from here originally, and if they even had family, it seemed they didn’t really care about what happened.”
“What happened to the wife, Michelle James?”
Sheriff Burke shrugged. “For all I know she’s still in the mental hospital up in Davenport. She never was deemed competent to stand trial.”
“She was sent to an insane asylum?”
“Yeah. She went berserk in jail. Some kind of traumatic something or other that she suffered from.”
I made a mental note to visit the hospital in Davenport. “You were the case officer, right?”
Burke nodded.
“Would you still have a copy of your investigative report—the search warrant and stuff like that?”
“That was twenty years ago. I doubt we still have a copy in records even.”
“We don’t. I checked.” I pulled out a notebook, where I’d scribbled some information from Wesley Guidry’s house. “Michelle James made some statements to the media on the night of the incident and said y’all hit the wrong house.”
“That was bullshit.”
“She also said her husband was not a drug dealer, that she’d never seen cocaine before in her life and that they didn’t own a gun.”
“What would you expect her to say?” Sheriff Burke sneered. “That bitch and her husband sold drugs to Martin—”
“Captain Thomas?”
Sheriff Burke nodded.
“I thought he worked patrol back then?”
“He did. He worked the north area, so we used him a few times to go undercover in the southern part of the parish where nobody knew him. We’d also use patrol officers from the south side to buy drugs from the north. They loved that shit. It got them out of the squad car and the polyester for a few hours.” Burke cleared his throat. “Anyway, Lenny James sold drugs to Martin the day before the raid and he did it in the presence of their baby. I just wish it had been the mother who died instead of the baby.”
“But, according to the newspapers, neither one of them were ever charged with a drug crime—or any crime, for that matter—before that night.”
“It doesn’t mean they didn’t do it. How many people have you arrested for murder who didn’t have a criminal record? How many drunk drivers have you arrested for vehicular homicide whose first arrest was the one that resulted in the death of another person?” Sheriff Burke nodded. “The same thing here. They’d been selling drugs for some time, but that was the first time they ever got caught.”
“But the papers said they interviewed all the neighbors and no one ever saw any suspicious activities or a high volume of traf
fic coming and going from the house. In fact, the neighbors told the reporters the people who lived across the street from the James were known drug dealers who had multiple arrests for distribution.”
Sheriff Burke waved it off. “People never talk bad about the dead. Take Justin Wainwright. When he was alive he busted a lot of cops, and they all hated him. Did you hear them at his funeral? Some of those same cops who used to openly profess their hatred for him were crying their eyes out and saying what a great man he was.” Burke shook his head. “Lenny James was a hardcore drug dealer, but you’ll never get his neighbors to say it now that he’s dead.”
It suddenly dawned on me that Sheriff Burke was explaining himself…trying to convince me that he was telling the truth. An innocent man—an innocent sheriff speaking to his underling—should have become indignant at my implications. “Sheriff, who did what out there?”
“What do you mean? And why is that important?”
“Who threw the flash bang? Who found the drugs? Who worked the shooting? Stuff like that. I think it’ll help us figure out who the biggest targets might be.”
The sheriff sighed and rubbed his tired head. “Wesley…Wesley Guidry threw the flash bang. He was never the same after that night. He only stayed on the job another year or two and resigned right after the hearings. We were all cleared of any wrongdoing, but he still felt responsible for killing the baby. Of course, he was just a kid at the time—we all were—and he didn’t know how to cope with the pressures of the job.”
“Why do you think he came forward after all these years? And what did he mean by having a document that proved what really happened that night?”
He shrugged. “I have no clue. I guess he just finally lost his mind. Had a nervous breakdown. He probably realized he was getting up in age and was getting closer to dying, so he figured he’d try and do something to help get his sorry ass to heaven.”
