by BJ Bourg
CHAPTER 5
Once the boat was tied to the trunk of the tree and we were on dry land, Norm glanced around nervously. “You think the killer’s out there in the trees right now? Gunning for us?”
I shrugged as I shut off the power on my phone. “He’s out there somewhere.”
“Um…I think I’ll just stay here with the boat,” he said. “You know, just to make sure no one steals it. Besides, I don’t have a ghillie suit.”
I nodded my understanding and headed east, carefully picking my way along the bank of Pelican Pass. The ground was soft for the most part, but cypress knees and gnarly roots littered the forest floor. I had to feel my way with my boots while keeping my head on a swivel. The killer could still be out there, lying in wait for his next victim. I penetrated every shadow and every clump of vegetation with my eyes. My movements were slow and methodical, and I didn’t make a sound. I kept my rifle poised for action as I picked my way across the marshland, taking one painstaking step at a time. It didn’t take long for me to come within earshot of Dawn and the other officers who were with her. I followed the sound of their voices and stopped when I could see movement through the trees. The water patrol deputies were casually walking around the area while Dawn was busy processing the scene.
I set up beside a tree and flipped open my scope caps and shouldered my rifle. Taking my time, I panned the entire area surrounding the crime scene and searched for the shooter. I didn’t look for a silhouette of a human, because a good sniper will break up his figure in order not to be detected by the human eye. I was looking for the tiniest inconsistency in the color or shape of vegetation, the slightest movement that went against the flow of the morning breeze, and any other human indicator that would clue me into the shooter’s position.
When I was satisfied the area was clear, I straightened and slung my rifle over my shoulder. The deputies had no idea I was there. Lucky for them, it was me and not the murderer. Unlucky for Dawn, they were of no use to her. Instead of being on high alert, I could hear them joking and fooling around, as though they were in a donut shop on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Moving smoothly, I covered the seventy or so yards to where two of the deputies were sitting on a downed tree talking about the Saints’ new season. I got to within fifteen feet of the crime scene tape when one of them noticed me and jumped to his feet, his hand inches from his pistol. “What the—?”
It was clear he had never seen a ghillie suit before. By the ashen look on his face, he had suddenly become a believer in Man Creature and the Swamp Monster—and he thought I was there to kill him.
I lifted my rifle and pulled back my hood. When he recognized my face, he relaxed and shook his head. “Damn, London, you scared the shit out of me.”
Dawn was squatting beside a lifeless body, busy writing notes and recording measurements. She looked up and I smiled at her as I unzipped my ghillie suit and let it slip from my shoulders. I rested my rifle against a nearby cypress tree and ducked under the tape.
“How are you?” I asked.
She shoved a tuft of brown hair behind her ear and grunted. “I’m thirty-two, single, and covered in swamp shit. How the hell do you think I am?”
I knew she wasn’t single for lack of prospects, because legend had it she’d been hit on by every male cop in the southern states—and even some female officers—but she had turned them all down. It was rumored she only wanted what she couldn’t have—the perfect man, and he didn’t exist.
“I know what you mean.” I jerked my radio off my belt, called for Norm to bring the boat downstream to where the other water patrol deputies had tied up their boats. I then stepped closer to the body.
Dawn’s brown eyes glistened with suspicion as she watched me get closer to her. “What parts?” she asked.
“Parts?”
“You said you know what I mean—about what parts?”
I glanced down at my muddy coveralls. “All of it. I’m single, thirty-two, and covered in swamp shit.”
“I thought you were seeing that girl…” She snapped her fingers. “What’s her name again?”
I didn’t say a word, choosing instead to study the dead guy. He wasn’t very tall, but he was a heavy kid. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. His head had been shaved, but the hair was coming back and it was the same length as his two-day’s growth of facial hair. He wore a white apron that was covered in blood, but I was guessing it wasn’t his own because it wasn’t fresh enough.
“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Dawn said. “Sally Piatkowski. Aren’t you dating Sally?”
“She’s old news,” I mumbled, leaning closer to the victim’s face. What had once been a pair of chubby cheeks was now a sunken mess of broken flesh and bone. His eyes were wide, as though he couldn’t believe what had happened to him. I looked around the scene, noting a dead alligator on the ground near the body. I pointed to the gator. “Did you question him? He might’ve seen something.”
“I did,” Dawn said, playing along, “but he sat tight-lipped and stone-faced throughout the interrogation.”
I grinned. I liked her. “How’d it get here?”
“The Simoneaux brothers dragged it from the lake,” she explained. “They stole it from another hunter’s line.”
I looked around the small clearing. “Where are the brothers of the dead guy?”
“Due north of here, on the edge of Pelican Pass.” Dawn went on to explain how they had found the brothers crouched down in their boat, shivering in fright, and the oldest had wet his pants. They had found three other dead alligators on the bank nearby and both brothers were armed—one with a rifle and the other a revolver. “But their guns were empty.”
“Empty? Did they return fire?”
Dawn nodded and pointed out a dozen evidence cones strewn about the scene. “The middle brother, Orville Simoneaux, reloaded his revolver three times and returned fire from that location.” She pointed to the base of a large cypress tree at the edge of the small clearing. “The oldest brother, Quentin, was shooting a twenty-two rifle. We found seventeen spent casings and about a dozen live rounds he dropped as he was running back to their boat.”
“Did you find the bullet that killed him?” I asked.
“I searched for scarring on all the nearby trees, but couldn’t find any. I guess it’s possible the bullet hit a crack in the bark, which would make it impossible to detect.”
“Are you done processing the scene?”
When she nodded, I retrieved my rifle from where it was leaning against the tree. “What’s the distance between the bottom of the victim’s feet and his entrance wound?” I asked.
Dawn flipped through her notes until she found the measurement and called out, “Fifty-eight inches.”
I then asked if she could place the tip of the measuring tape on the ground where the victim had been standing and extend it upward fifty-eight inches. When she had done what I asked, I sidled up close to her and leaned my rifle against the measuring tape.
As I peered through my scope, trying to backtrack the bullet to the sniper’s location, I couldn’t help but notice the sweet aroma of Dawn’s perfume. I caught it intermittently, with each blow of the gentle breeze. Pushing the distraction from my head, I focused on the task at hand.
The forest was thick with trees, making it difficult to locate a lane of more than forty yards through which the bullet could’ve passed. I was about to give up and call the witnesses liars when I detected a narrow opening in the distance that led to an even longer lane beyond it. I steadied my rifle and focused like a laser on a fork in the trees about three hundred yards away. The perfect spot!
Noticing a difference in my demeanor, Dawn asked if I saw something.
“I’ve got a fix on his location,” I said, scanning the area inch by inch. He could’ve displaced after the first shot and set up for a second, which would mean we were all in danger. When I was comfortable he wasn’t operating within that alleyway any longer, I lowered my rifle and h
eld it in my left hand. I then pointed toward the sniper’s hide with my right index finger and lined my shoulder up with the spot Norris was standing when he got killed. “Dawn, find the first tree behind me that lines up with my arm.”
Not taking my eye off of my index finger, I waited and listened as Dawn’s boots crunched through the forest behind me. She would move for a bit and then her boots would stop for a second or two, and then she would move again. After about five minutes, I heard her give a triumphant yell.
Keeping my right arm extended in the direction of the sniper’s hide, I slowly turned my head to see where she’d found the bullet. All three points—the sniper’s hide, Norris’ location, and the bullet—were collinear.
I walked to the tree, which was less than ten feet away, and looked where Dawn pointed. A pimple of a hole was present in the bark, but it was fresh. After she photographed the location and measured it, I pulled my knife out and began digging into the bark around the hole, slowly chipping away one layer at a time. After peeling off a few layers, I saw something shiny sticking out of the center of the hole. Although it was still embedded, I could tell that the copper base of the projectile was intact and the striations were clearly defined. I frowned. It was great to find the bullet, but unless we recovered a rifle, it would be useless for ballistics comparisons.
“You have an evidence bag?” I asked.
Without saying a word, Dawn handed me a white evidence envelope. I held it against the tree, just under the bullet, and kept digging. As I dug, a few shards of copper jacketing broke free from the tree and fell into the envelope, followed moments later by the mushroomed bullet. I handed the envelope to Dawn.
“Too bad we don’t have a rifle to compare it against,” she said.
“Hopefully we’ll get lucky and the killer dropped his rifle.”
“Yeah, along with a confession and his driver’s license.” She studied the contents of the envelope. “Can you tell what caliber of bullet it is?”
“It’s definitely from the thirty-caliber family. My guess would be a three-o-eight, but I can’t be positive. We’ll know more if the bastard left a casing behind.” I shouldered my drag bag and cradled my rifle in the crook of my arm. “Why don’t you get yourself and your deputies out of here and tell Norm to wait for me by Pelican Pass. I’ll check out the sniper’s hide, and then Norm and I will meet you back at the boat launch.”
Dawn turned and barked orders to the three water patrol deputies who were milling around outside the crime scene tape, telling them to transport the victim’s body to the boat landing and to bring the two brothers to the Seasville Substation. “Oh,” she said, “and bring the alligators over to the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries for disposal.”
She then turned back to me and, after adjusting her crime scene backpack on her shoulders, nodded. “I’m ready.”
I stared down at her, guessing she couldn’t be more than three inches above the five-foot mark and wondering why I hadn’t realized that before. It must’ve been her confidence that made her seem taller. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in her dark eyes, and I knew better than to argue. “Okay, but we’ll have to mess you up a little before we go.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
I pulled out a pack of camo paint and flipped open the lid. “Smear this on your face to break up your shape.”
“Oh, cool, we get to play dress up.” She dabbed her fingers in the paint and followed my lead, smearing the four different colors across her skin. There was a twinkle in her eye when she said, “I haven’t done this since grade school.”
“Did you also belly crawl through the swamps in grade school? Because you’re about to get a whole lot dirtier than you are right now.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Does that mean that I’m going to stink?”
“Like shit.”
CHAPTER 6
Three hours later…
The sun was high in the sky as Dawn and I surveyed the fork in the tree from prone positions thirty feet away. Her body was so close to mine I could feel warmth generating from her. We’d remained in that position for at least forty minutes, not uttering a word and not making a sound. When I was finally convinced the shooter was gone, I tapped her on the shoulder and nodded.
She groaned as she pushed herself to a kneeling position. “Damn,” she whispered, “I didn’t realize lying down could be such hard work.”
“Be grateful you can move. I’ve often been in positions for so long that my muscles fell asleep and I couldn’t even force them to budge.”
“You’ve just convinced me not to apply for the open sniper positions.”
My head jerked around. “Were you considering it?”
She laughed. “Hell, no! Crawling around on the ground and climbing buildings with a giant rifle is not my idea of a good time. Give me a pistol and a front door to kick down and I’m happy.”
I sighed and stood to my feet. “The ghillie suit compliments you.”
She glanced down at the oversized suit I’d insisted she wear. It was nowhere near her size, but I wanted her to be as invisible as possible while we moved through the trees. I could control my movements and make myself appear invisible, but she’d never done that type of stalking before and I needed as much help as I could to conceal her presence.
“It looks like you rolled me in tar and tossed a bunch of leaves on me,” she complained. “I hope you didn’t take a picture of me.”
“Nope—I took a bunch of pictures.” I motioned for her to draw her pistol and then we spread out. I pointed toward the v-shaped tree and nodded when it was time to make our approach. She was on the right side—moving exactly as I’d shown her in the crash course three hours earlier—and I was on the left, and we were both careful not to disturb any evidence we might find or to give away our positions.
When we reached the trunk and could see on the other side of it, I nodded and shot a finger toward the three points of contact that were indicative of a kneeling position. “The ground is packed where the shooter’s knee and feet were resting.”
After studying the fork in the tree and noticing some wear, I shook my head. “He rested the forearm of his rifle here.” I pointed several feet beyond the tree. “I would’ve backed up several feet so my rifle wouldn’t stick out beyond the tree.”
“Does that mean he’s an amateur?”
“Not exactly.” I explained how he could’ve sacrificed concealment for accuracy. “He knew he was only targeting hunters tromping around in the woods rather than a skilled sniper, so he might have intentionally exposed the barrel of his rifle to ensure an accurate one-shot kill.”
Dawn began chewing on her lower lip as she surveyed the area. “I don’t see a spent shell casing anywhere.”
“If he’s well trained, you won’t,” I said. “Snipers are taught to be invisible. To the extent possible, they don’t leave a shred of evidence that they were there. They carry everything out with them, and that includes their spent casings. If this guy’s a smoker, he’ll carry every cigarette butt away with him. If he chews tobacco, he’ll spit in his pocket and clean it out later.”
Dawn frowned. “I read the sniper requirements and you said applicants should be non-tobacco users.”
“I control what happens on my team, but some leaders don’t care.”
“Would you really disqualify someone for using tobacco products?”
I nodded. “Ask Dean why he doesn’t chew anymore.”
She called me a hard ass and continued her grid search of the area. While she worked, I kept a wary eye out just in case the sniper decided to double back and add another notch on his rifle butt. I smirked to myself as a disconcerting thought crept into my mind—if the sniper did return and shoot me, I’d be killed so instantly I’d never even know I was dead. I fought back the chills as I wondered if he was staring at me through his crosshairs just as I had stared at so many others over the years. It would only take a split second for me
to leave this world and enter—
“Are you listening to me?”
I jerked my head around and saw Dawn squatting next to a cypress tree holding a small strip of burlap in her hand. “What’d you say?”
“I asked if this is something you snipers use to play hide-and-seek?” She held it against my ghillie suit that was still draped over her. “It looks like the burlap on your suit.”
I sighed. We were definitely dealing with a sniper. Hunters wear bright orange so other hunters can see them, but snipers wear ghillie suits so no one can see them. “We have to operate off of the assumption that your victim was targeted by a trained killer—someone who wanted him dead or he was paid by someone who wanted him dead.”
Dawn pulled a small baggie from her backpack and secured the burlap inside. I began making wide circles around the area and soon found a faint trail leading east through the swampy forest. It was nothing more than a snapped branch here, a crushed dry leaf there, and a light impression in the soft ground, but it was a trail nonetheless, and it had to be the sniper.
“Keep your gun out,” I told Dawn. “And stay close to me.”
Dawn pushed her Glock out in front of her and took up a two-handed grip, her eyes squinting and her jaw set. She nodded that she was ready and I began leading the way through the forest, traveling as fast as I quietly could.
I was impressed by Dawn’s noise discipline. I had to look back often to make sure she was still there because I couldn’t hear her. After about an hour, we came across a wide clearing that was free of trees and underbrush. The marsh grass was tall in that area, but there was no cover to get behind in case the killer targeted us. I backed into the shadows and leaned against a tree. “We need to get to the other side,” I said, “but we can’t be seen.”
Dawn nodded her understanding and followed my lead as I eased to my belly and slid between the blades of grass, trying to move in unison with the wind. It was a painstaking process and it took nearly an hour to reach the safety and cover of the trees again. Once there, we were able to make better time and we reached the end of the line about thirty minutes later when a bayou cut us off from the rest of the forest.
