by BJ Bourg
Orville nodded his agreement and shook his head when it was his turn to look at the picture. “They’re too messed up to really tell what they looked like.”
Frank scowled. “They do look messed up. Where’d y’all get these?”
“Look, we don’t know if these clothes came off of your father,” I explained slowly. “We’re just trying to show you some items to see if you recognize them. It doesn’t mean the man was your dad.”
“What man?” Frank asked.
“The man who was wearing these clothes.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to recognize him. He’s been dead and buried for many years.”
“Buried?” Frank’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did you dig this man out of the grave?”
“Something like that.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Then it can’t be my dad, because we never buried him.”
I slid the next picture toward him, which depicted the cigarettes and eye glasses from the autopsy. “Please, just look at these pictures for me and tell me if you recognize anything.”
He sighed and took the photos I handed him, shaking his head with each one. But when I handed him the photograph of the Zippo lighter as we’d first found it, he held it close to his face. “My dad had a lighter like this one, but his name was cut into it. This one’s too dirty to see a name. Do you have a better picture?”
I pulled out the photograph of the lighter all cleaned up and slowly slid it across the table, studying his expression closely. When he saw the name, Theodore Simoneaux, his tanned face grew pale. Tears welled up in his eyes and slid down his weathered face.
“We think this is linked to the man we found in the grave,” I explained. “We’ll need some reference DNA samples from you to verify it’s your father, but everything points to it being him—”
“What do you mean?” Orville asked. “What’s in the picture?” When Frank didn’t answer, Orville snatched the picture out of his dad’s hands and studied it. His eyes widened and his chin began to tremble. “No! This was my grandpa’s lighter. He always told me it would be mine when he died. He would never lose this!”
CHAPTER 40
After a long moment of silent tears, Frank Simoneaux nodded his head and slid the photograph back toward me. “This…this is my dad’s lighter. Where’d you get it?” he asked. “Was this on that man in the grave?”
I shook my head. “Although we think it came from the man, we found it in an abandoned lumberyard in Lower Seasville.” I went on to explain how Cade Baryon had led us to the gravesite of the old man, and how we’d searched the lumberyard and located the lighter and keys and other items. I left out the details regarding the brutal way in which he had been killed. When I was done explaining how we’d come to find the lighter, I leaned across the table and searched his eyes. “Mr. Simoneaux, can you think of any reason why your dad would be in that old lumberyard?”
“I’m not sure about a lumberyard, but I do know he would come home from time to time with a lot of extra wood. He never said where he got it and we never asked. Coming up, he taught us not to ask questions—just to be thankful for what we had.”
“How often would he make these trips?”
Frank shrugged. “We never knew when he was making a run for wood or when he was making a run for food. He’d go out into the swamps every day. Some days he came back with deer, some days it was alligator, some days it was wood. Hell, he even came home with toys for the boys one day. We never asked where he got it and he never said.”
I settled back in my chair and studied the photograph in front of me, hoping it would reveal something hidden—something we hadn’t thought about before.
“Mr. Simoneaux, did your dad have trouble with anyone?” Dawn asked. “Did you guys ever suspect foul play?”
“He got along with everybody,” Frank said.
“Wait a minute,” Orville interjected. “Why are you asking about trouble and foul play? Did someone hurt him?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so. It looks like he was beaten to death.”
Frank gasped and clutched at his chest.
“Dad!” Orville sprang to his feet and rushed to Frank’s side. “Are you okay?”
Frank reached out with his hands and pulled Orville into a bear hug. The man cried for several long minutes. I wasn’t positive, but it appeared Orville was crying, too. They both seemed sincere, but I had to explore the possibility that they’d already known Theodore had been murdered.
When Frank and Orville finally backed away from each other, I asked Orville if I could have a word with his dad.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Orville jutted his chin out in defiance.
I stood slowly to my feet and walked toward him. I didn’t stop until our faces were inches apart. Speaking so only he could hear, I said, “Don’t make me walk outside and find that illegal alligator you’ve been dressing.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but then clamped it shut. Reluctantly, he turned on his heel and called over his shoulder, “I’ll be in my room if you need me, Dad.”
“I’ll have a word with him.” Dawn stood and followed Orville to his room.
When they were gone, I returned to my seat. “Mr. Simoneaux, I know this is difficult, but I have to ask. Were you aware that your dad had been killed?”
He shook his head. “We knew he had disappeared, but we thought he’d turn up some day. I can’t even believe someone would hurt him.”
“I checked our database and there’s no record of his disappearance. Why didn’t you or your mom report him missing?”
“We don’t involve the law in any of our business.” He let out a long, sad sigh. “It was how my dad raised me, so we knew he wouldn’t want us involving the law when he disappeared. I guess we should’ve made a report.”
“How do you think he got to Lower Seasville from here?”
“He took his boat. It was a fifteen-foot wooden skiff. He built it himself. We noticed it missing two days after he didn’t come back home.” He shook his head. “We never found him, we never found the boat, and we looked everywhere.”
I mulled over what he said and then asked if he knew Wilton Michot.
“Never heard of him. Is he the man that killed my dad?”
“We have some evidence suggesting it was him, but we’re not sure yet.”
“Are you going to arrest him when you get your evidence?”
“No.” I slowly shook my head. “We won’t be arresting him. He’s dead.”
Frank’s face was stone. “Good, that’s even better.”
My eyes narrowed just a little. “Do you mind telling me where you were last Monday?”
“What time?”
“Late at night and into early Tuesday morning.”
Frank grunted again. “That’s easy. I was in bed sleeping.”
“What about Orville?”
“He was home, too.”
I turned to his wife, who had been sitting silently, taking it all in. “Can you verify that?”
She only nodded.
I asked a few more questions and Frank answered every one of them. I didn’t get the impression he had anything to do with Wilton’s murder. Just as I was wrapping up my questions, Dawn appeared from the hallway and gave me a nod.
“I’m done if you are,” she said.
I gave Frank the number to the coroner’s office, so they could make the necessary burial arrangements. After thanking him for his time and apologizing again for his loss, I followed Dawn outside and we waved at Norm that we were ready to leave. On the ride back to the Seasville Boat Launch, Dawn and I exchanged notes, but neither of us thought Frank or Orville had anything to do with Wilton’s murder.
“At least they can get some closure now,” I said.
We sat beside each other and didn’t say much for the rest of the ride. Once we were back in my truck and heading toward the Seasville
Substation, I told Dawn we needed to find out the identities of the two boys Cade had mentioned. “We need to start by finding out who Wilton was hanging out with back then.”
“That was a long time ago, London. Who on earth would remember his friends from thirty years ago? Hell, even if he were alive he might not remember.”
“Let’s start with his wife and see if she knows,” I suggested. “If she doesn’t, maybe she can tell us where he went to school or we can check with his parents. Someone has to know something.”
Dawn didn’t respond…she was already on the phone calling Katina. When Katina answered, Dawn began grilling her in an attempt to find out the names of his friends, relatives, and even enemies. It didn’t sound like she was getting anywhere until she asked about his schooling.
“Oh, he didn’t go to school with you?” Dawn asked. “That’s right…Cade Baryon told us he went to a private school. Do you know which one it was?” She glanced at me and covered the phone. “She doesn’t remember the name, but she said he hated it.” She got back on the phone and pulled out an ink pen. “Okay, I’m ready…right, got it. Are you sure she won’t mind me calling? Great!”
“What’s going on?” I asked when she hung up.
Dawn began dialing a number as she talked. “She doesn’t know the name of the school, but she gave me the number to Wilton’s sister who attended the same school. Katina said she might know who his friends were.”
Dawn put the phone to her ear again and introduced herself. After speaking briefly with the woman, she asked if she knew the names of any of Wilton’s friends from thirty years earlier. “They would’ve most likely been school buddies,” Dawn said. “Oh, you don’t? What about the school…do you think they would have any records? They should? Awesome…what school was that again?”
There was a pause and then Dawn said, “Holy shit!”
“What is it?” I asked. “Is Holy Shit the name of the school?”
Dawn lowered her phone and stared straight ahead. “He went to the private school at the Magnolia Life Church.”
“Holy shit!”
CHAPTER 41
When we arrived at the Magnolia Life Church, we found a dozen cars parked in the lot. I pulled up near the front door to the office and we exited my truck. The steps leading up to the office were made of marble and the hand railings were solid brass. I grunted. “I didn’t realize church buildings were so rich.”
“You have no idea.” Dawn’s voice was somber as she led the way up the steps and into the waiting room. I whistled as I looked around. There were highly detailed paintings of Jesus lining every wall. They almost looked 3-D. Above the reception glass, beside one of the pictures of Jesus, was a portrait of a man. There was a golden placard on the bottom framework that read, Father Nehemiah Wiltz.
“Is he their pope or something?” I asked.
“No, it’s the preacher who runs the church. He must’ve replaced Isaac Stewart.” Dawn smashed the brass bell that rested on the ledge in front of the frosted window. I couldn’t help but notice how close her right hand was to her pistol. Everyone in Magnolia had heard about the case she and Detective Brandon Berger worked seven or eight years ago that involved the church. Not only had it left a lasting impression on the two of them, but it also left a lasting impression on the community. Many locals thought those were scars that would never heal.
I checked out the rest of the room as we waited. A red leather sofa set, a solid oak coffee table, and two matching end tables were perfectly situated in the room. I wondered how Mr. Wiltz would react if I sat on the sofa and threw my boots up on the coffee table, but the window slid open before I could find out.
The young girl on the other side of the glass smiled and asked what she could do for us, but her smile faded when she saw our badges and guns. “Oh…um, is there something wrong?”
“We need to see whoever’s in charge of the school,” Dawn said, her voice stern. “Right away.”
The girl quickly slid the window shut and we heard her footsteps echoing on the other side of the wall, growing fainter as she moved farther and farther away from the window.
“Want me to handle this?” I asked Dawn. “I don’t mind.”
Dawn chewed on her lower lip and nodded. “I still have ill feelings toward this place and everyone in it. I don’t know if I can be nice.”
“I understand.”
After waiting almost five minutes, a side door opened and a tall thin lady stepped out to greet us. She wore a solid black dress that matched her jet black hair and accentuated her pale skin. She held out a bony hand and forced a smile. “My name is Gillian Carothers. I’m the vice principal of Magnolia Life Learning Academy. How may I help you?”
I made the introductions and the skin around Gillian’s eyes seemed to tighten a little when I mentioned Dawn’s name. I ignored the reaction and asked if we could speak in private. She led us down a long corridor and stopped near a large solid door. When she opened it, I stepped back to allow her to enter first and then Dawn and I filed in behind her.
A large Judge’s bench was positioned in the corner and it served as the desk. It was constructed of quarter-sawn oak and the surface was topped with lacquered sailcloth material. The leather wingback chair behind it rested on ball and claw feet, and Gillian took her seat in it. Looking much taller in the chair, she waved for us to sit across from her and we found ourselves in chairs with much shorter legs. If it makes you feel better, I thought to myself, grinning inwardly.
Once we were comfortable, I glanced at the wall to our left, which served as a solid bookshelf. It looked to be made of oak and the shelves were completely filled with books—from floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall.
“This place is nice,” I said.
“Why, thank you.” Gillian had one of those fake-nice voices. “Now, what can I do for you all?”
“Isn’t this the pastor’s office?” Dawn asked.
“It used to be, but now it’s the principal’s office. Father Nehemiah’s office is toward the rear of the building, where he enjoys more privacy.” She folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “So, how can I be of service? As you can imagine, I keep a busy schedule, so my time is limited.”
“I’ll get right to it.” I pulled out a driver’s license photograph of Wilton Michot and handed it to her. “Do you recognize this guy? He attended school here thirty years ago.”
Gillian studied the photograph. “That was a bit before my time. Maybe I can ask some of the older teachers if they remember him.”
“That would be great,” I said. “In the meantime, do you have yearbooks from that far back?”
Her eyes involuntarily shifted toward the bookshelf and then back. “Um, may I ask what this is all about?”
“This guy’s dead,” I explained, “and we need to find out if he had any friends from back then who might be able to provide some insight into his past.”
Without waiting for her to reply, Dawn stood and ambled toward the bookshelf. Gillian’s eyes were on her like a laser-guided missile and she said, “I’ll have to ask the principal if it’s okay—”
“Wow,” Dawn said, pulling a leather-bound book from one of the shelves. “These yearbooks go back almost forty years. One for every year the school’s been in existence, I’m guessing?”
“Please, detective, I don’t know if it’s okay to take those down.”
“It’ll be fine,” Dawn assured her. She replaced the book she’d grabbed and pulled down another one, flipping slowly through the pages. “London, was Wilton a senior or junior when this happened?”
“I think Cade only mentioned high school, so it could be any grade.” I turned to Gillian, who was wringing her hands and watching Dawn with trepidation. “Tell me about this school…how many students do you have?”
Without taking her eyes off of Dawn, she answered my question. I asked other meaningless questions, hoping to get her to relax a little. I didn’t think it helped, but it didn’t matter. Dawn finally w
hipped around and placed the yearbook on the desk in front of me, her finger stabbing a class picture of a much younger Wilton Michot.
“He was a senior,” she said.
I scanned the faces and names of the graduates on the same page, but none of them stood out. Dawn leaned over my shoulder and began flipping through the sections on sports and other clubs, stopping on each one long enough for us to search for more pictures of Wilton. When she got to the football page, there was a picture of Wilton with his arms around two other players. The one on the left looked vaguely familiar. I pointed to him.
“Is that—?”
“It sure is!” Dawn said.
I stood to my feet. “That son of a bitch lied!”
“Detective!” Gillian’s face seemed to catch fire. “This is a house of the Lord!”
CHAPTER 42
It took a lot of convincing from Dawn before Gillian Carothers would allow us to take possession of the yearbook, but—after letting her wrap it in a thick envelope and promising to bring it back in pristine condition—we were finally on our way. We’d also met the new preacher and he seemed nice enough.
“I can’t believe you cursed in church,” Dawn said once we were in my truck heading north on Highway Three. A bit of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I thought Mrs. Carothers was going to take you out back and paddle your bare ass.”
“I thought she was going to stab me in the throat with her long fingernails.”
Dawn was thoughtful for a while, then looked over at me. “I picked up a different vibe from this Nehemiah fellow. When Isaac Stewart ran the place, he gave me the creeps. He had a cultish way about him. This new preacher doesn’t give off that same air.”
“So, you think the church people are okay and Isaac was the problem?”
