Mellow Yellow, Dead Red

by Sylvia Rochester

  “If you don’t mind a nosey Doberman and a curious tabby, we can meet at my house.”

  “No problem. I love animals.”

  “I’m at 345 Lovett Lane. It’s a white brick house with brown trim. Mail box out front has my house numbers down the post.”

  “I know that street. What’s a good time for you?”

  “Give me about an hour. I need to pick up clutter from the past few days.”

  Susan used the time to call A. K. and tell her what had happened. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I took off a few days, but if Burkett turns out to be the man in the woods, it’ll relieve a lot of my stress.”

  “Man, what is it with you? You’re like a magnet around bodies. Who do you think killed him?”

  “I have no idea. What has me upset now are the bones that the cadaver dog hit on. Do you think it might have been an ancient burial ground? Did the person who buried Burkett disturb their resting place? Is that why the Indian appeared to me?”

  “Ooo, that gives me chills. What are you going to do?”

  “I called Professor Alexander and will meet with her in an hour. Maybe she can make sense of this.”

  “Keep me posted, and I’ll make sure we stay in business.”

  Susan still had thirty minutes before meeting with Martha. She decided to call Kara.

  “How are things going?” she asked her sister-in-law.

  “Wonderful, thanks to you and Wesley. Susan, I heard the victim in the park was identified as Nina Hasting. Seems the Tarot cards were right. I kept seeing the letter ‘N’”

  “Wesley assumed you were picking up things on his cold case, Edith Nelson. He thought the ‘N’ might apply to her last name and was afraid the worst had happened to her. When the woman in the park was identified, he was relieved it wasn’t Edith. I think you made him a believer.”

  “What about you?”

  “Maybe I was too quick to judge you. Who am I to discredit anyone? I hope between the two of us we can help Wesley even more.”

  “If you feel that way, I’d still like to read your palm.”

  “Don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” Susan laughed. “Give Edward a hug for me. We’ll get together soon.”

  Susan hung up and reached for her purse. “Bye, Marmalade. Be a good kitty.”

  Lovett Lane was in a subdivision off the main highway about five miles from Hammond. Martha’s house was nestled beneath towering pines, almost as if it were a part of the landscape. How comforting, Susan thought, to be embraced by nature. Several clay pots, filled with greenery and the remnants of some blooming plants, were clustered in a flower bed bordered with monkey grass. To the right of the walkway and in front of a picture window, wind chimes played a jingling melody as they danced from a branch in a Japanese maple. The house was warm and inviting, much like Martha’s personality.

  Parked in the driveway was a late model Nissan white mini-van. Susan decided a Ford Explorer would better fit Martha’s vocation.

  At the sound of the doorbell, a deep bark responded from inside the house.

  “Come in,” Martha said, opening the door.

  Beside her sat a black and tan Doberman. The dog stared at Susan with eyes as black as coal. Sculptured, pointed ears stood erect, like radar scanning its target. Susan would not want to tangle with this one under any circumstances.

  “Susan, meet Tasha. She might look menacing, but she’s all bluff.”

  “Coulda’ fooled me.”

  “Okay, Tasha, say hello to Susan.”

  The Doberman circled Susan then nudged her hand with a warm snout. Susan gave the dog a few pats on the head, and Tasha’s nub of a tail wagged so hard her butt shook.

  “She likes you,” Martha said. “That fat, yellow tabby, sitting on the arm of the sofa, is Salem. No need to make his acquaintance. He’ll meet you on his terms—when he’s good and ready. Let’s go in the kitchen. I have some delicious oatmeal cookies and just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Susan took a seat at the table while Martha poured the coffee. Tasha lay down on her doggie bed near the back door.

  “Now, what’s so urgent?” Martha asked.

  “I’m in a relationship with a homicide detective, Wesley Grissom. He’s been working on a particular cold case for over five years. So, I rode with him and his partner on ATVs into the woods south of town on the pretense of finding additional evidence.”

  “Isn’t that where you found the arrowhead and where Wildlife and Fisheries discovered the body of a dismembered woman?”

  “Yes, but we were nowhere close to where that happened. We entered the woods farther down the highway.”

  Martha held up her hand. “Hold on a minute. Before you go any further, you should explain what you meant by saying you went into the woods on the pretense of finding evidence. What was the real reason?”

  “This is always the hard part—telling the truth and not sounding like a lunatic.”

  “I don’t believe you’re crazy, so let’s hear it.”

  “I have visions.”

  Martha laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

  “I don’t mean like daydreaming. Mine are precognitive scenes, a prelude to a mystery. My grandma had the same ability. It’s weird knowing about things that haven’t happened yet. Until recently, I’ve had no control over when these visions might occur. That changed when I found the arrowhead. The moment I picked it out of the dirt, a Chitimacha brave appeared before me.”

  Martha raised her eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “The Indian was identical to the one you showed me in the book. I first saw him at the fun run for the food pantry. But since everyone was in costume, I assumed he was a participant.”

  “Whoa, this is not at all what I expected to hear.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just overwhelming. Please, go on.”

  “Wesley knows I’m psychic, and I’ve helped him solve several cases. So when the Indian appeared to me the other night and showed me a cabin deep in the woods with a crouched figure beside it, I knew we had to go there. In my vision, it was night and so dark that I couldn’t tell if the person was a male or female. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back the person was running through the woods.

  “Anyway, we found the cabin, and the scene was identical to what I had seen. The detectives looked inside the cabin, but backed out when they saw signs of a crime—ropes tied to a bed, and a chain bolted to a wall. I convinced Wesley to investigate the mound of leaves beside the cabin. He didn’t have to dig far before he uncovered a body.”

  “You mean there’s been another murder?” Martha asked.

  “Afraid so. Wesley thinks the victim might have murdered the woman.”

  “Then who murdered him?”

  “That’s a mystery they have yet to solve.”

  “What does all that have to do with me?”

  “After the coroner exhumed the body, he found bones in the shallow grave—old bones, like over-hundreds-of-years-old bones. When the cadaver dog hit on several locations, the coroner said he was going to contact the State Archaeologist to find out who was in charge of this region.”

  “That would be me,” Martha said, “and I received a call today. I was told there were numerous findings and was given GPS coordinates. After hearing your story, I can’t wait to see the site. I’ll need to do a preliminary examination and determine the extent of the dig before I gather my team.”

  “I’m so glad you’ll be in charge. When are you going? If you let me go with you, I can show you exactly where they found the bones. And if the arrowhead is indeed a talisman, maybe I can summon the Indian. I feel there is more he wants to show me.”

  “Well, it would make it easier than following GPS coordinates.”

  “I promise not to get in your way.”

  “Exactly how many locations did the cadaver dog indicate possible human remains?”

  “I counted seven marker
s, all close to the cabin. There could be more in the surrounding area. It seems incredible a dog could pick up a scent after so many years.”

  “Cadaver dogs are incredible animals. Their sense of smell is one-thousand times that of a human. The oldest bones ever detected by a cadaver dog were about six-hundred years old, and the bones were six feet underground. No matter how old the bones, my team shouldn’t have a problem retrieving them.”

  “French historical records say that the Chitimacha Indians could have been in this area as late as three-hundred and seven years ago. Three-hundred year old bones lying just beneath the surface could be easily detected by a cadaver dog.”

  “Maybe you should make arrangements to have a dog at the site.”

  “Honey, when my team gets to work, we won’t leave any place unturned. If there are more bones out there, we’ll find them. I talked earlier with the Sheriff’s Department. They said the site would be clear for me in the morning. Can you take off work?”

  “My employees are in charge right now. I made arrangements to take off a few days.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “At the Pine Crest Apartments, Number Four.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”

  “Do I need to bring anything special?”

  “I’ll have everything we’ll need for this trip. Just be sure to dress appropriately—jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a hat. The mornings are a little nippy, but it’ll heat up quickly.”

  Martha walked Susan to the front door, and Tasha followed.

  “You don’t mind if I bring company, do you?” Marsha asked, glancing at Tasha.

  “Not at all.” Susan gave Tasha a few strokes on the head. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Susan drove home, excited about accompanying Martha tomorrow. Would the Indian appear? From examination of the bones, would Martha be able to tell what had happened to all those people?

  As Susan turned onto the highway, her cell phone rang.

  “Where are you?” Wesley asked.

  “I’m almost home. I went to visit with Professor Alexander and told her about the bones. Guess what? She’s heading up the excavation. I’m going with her to the site tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you going into those woods.”

  “We won’t be alone. She’s bringing a bodyguard.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope, her name is Tasha. She’s a Doberman.”

  Wesley laughed. “You should be okay then. As soon as I execute a warrant on Burkett’s apartment, I’ll let you know what we find. Love you.”

  Wesley had no problem getting a judge to sign the warrant, and he made sure it covered Burkett’s apartment and his Dodge Ram truck at the Shiloh Apartments.

  “You ready, Reg?” Wesley asked. “We should have time to do this before we shut it down for the day.”

  Reggie took the last bite of his burger and tossed the wrapper in the wastebasket. “I am now. Good thing we picked up burgers on the way back. I was running on empty.”

  Wesley slid behind the wheel of the Crown Victoria and cranked the motor. “I’m getting low on gas. We’d better fill up before we hit the road. There’s a Shell station in the next block.” Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Burkett’s place.

  “You ever been to the Shiloh Apartments,” Reggie asked.

  “If you mean have I worked a homicide there, can’t say that I have. I know where they are though, about a half mile past the Burger Shack.”

  “They’re rather sleazy looking. I’ve made more than one drug bust there. That’s one book you can judge by its cover.”

  The complex consisted of twelve individual structures, each separated by a gravel walkway. White shells covered the parking area. One apartment sat alone, opposite the others. An office sign hung from a post in the front yard.

  “I see what you mean. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, huh?” Wesley said. “Looks more like a campground than an apartment complex. Guess we’d better start with the manager.”

  Wesley wasn’t prepared for what he saw upon entering the office. The decor looked like a scene out of the 1950s. On one side of the room, a Formica table with a chrome trim around the edges sat in front of a window. On the other side, a green, vinyl couch and two matching arm chairs formed a waiting area. The years hadn’t been kind to any of the furniture.

  A thin and heavily wrinkled woman with short gray hair sat behind a desk that held an ashtray overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. She rose to meet them. “I’m Lucy Pittman, owner and manager. What can I do for you fellows?” She cleared her throat four or five times when delivering those lines.

  “I’m Detective Wesley Grissom and this is my partner, Reggie Satterfield.” Wesley pulled the paper from his inside coat pocket. “We have a warrant to search apartment number four and the Dodge Ram truck belonging to Dale Burkett.”

  She stared with faded, blue eyes at Wesley. “Something happen to him?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he was murdered.”

  The news didn’t seem to upset Ms. Pittman. Her only response was to slowly shake her head. “That boy lived in the woods. I figured he’d die in a hunting accident.”

  The sound of several cars drew their attention.

  “The Crime Scene Unit’s here,” Reggie said.

  Ms. Pittman reached behind her, grabbed a key off the wall. Picking up a walking cane propped against her desk, she asked, “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Not yet. We’re hoping to get some leads from his personal effects,” Reggie said.

  Ms. Pittman stopped and gave Reggie a studied look. “You’ve been here before.”

  “On several occasions,” he said.

  Ms. Pittman gave a harrumph and shuffled out the front door.

  “Which one?” the lead technician asked as Wesley and Reggie emerged from the office.

  “We’re heading there now.”

  “Burkett lives, uh...make that lived, in the first unit, right across from here,” Ms. Pittman said. “He worked part-time for me as a maintenance man but didn’t have any set hours. When I needed him, I’d leave a message on his phone, and he’d leave me an invoice when the repairs were finished. In return, I’d give him a break on the rent.

  “A few times, I couldn’t reach him and had to call in outside help. Lately, I’d about decided to fire him and find someone else, but he said his mother was elderly and needed medical attention.” She stopped and looked up at Wesley. “I know what it’s like to get old and need help. Anyway, he said he was the only one who could see to her. I felt sorry for him and kept him on.”

  The Dodge truck was not parked in front of Burkett’s apartment nor was it near any of the other apartments. “I notice Mr. Burkett’s truck is not here,” Wesley said.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes he leaves it at his parents house.”

  “Do you have that address?”

  “No, but you can’t miss it. It’s only a half mile down the highway on the right. It’s painted barn red.”

  “What about friends? Did Burkett have any visitors?” Wesley asked.

  “None that I know of. He was strictly a loner.”

  “Do you know if he worked other jobs?”

  “Yeah, he was a part-time janitor at the high school.”

  Ms. Pittman opened the door to Burkett’s apartment. “I’ll be in the office. Guess you’ll want to keep the key for a while, Mr. Grissom.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Wesley and Reggie waited until the Crime Unit finished their initial entry and had photographed everything before they entered the premises. The place reeked of mold and dirt, like Burkett had dragged in the swamp. Roach droppings littered the floor. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Cans and empty cereal boxes cluttered the counter tops. The stench of body odor rose from clothes piled on a chair in the bedroom.

  “It’s hard to tell if this was a murder scene,” the head technician said. “Considering th
e last two murders were violent and bloody, there doesn’t seem to be any trace of blood here. Best we can do is to lift some prints and collect trace evidence.”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt he was killed in the woods,” Wesley said.

  “Detective Grissom, you might want to take a look at this,” an investigator called from the bathroom. He held a Tylenol bottle in one hand and had emptied the contents into his other hand. “Someone didn’t want anyone to find this.”

  A photographer took pictures as the head technician lifted a shiny object from the deputy’s gloved hand and dropped it into a clear evidence bag. “Is this a piece of your puzzle?” he asked.

  Wesley’s heart thumped against his chest at the sight of an earring with a silver cross.

  Chapter 14

  Wesley looked closer at the earring. For sure, it matched the one Vince found in Nina’s hair. “The coroner was right. The killer did keep a souvenir. This, my man, will exonerate Detective Charlie Morgan.”

  “So, he killed the woman we found earlier. Then who killed this guy?”

  “When I find that out, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Funny,” the head technician said.

  Wesley kept thinking about the person in Susan’s vision, the one running through the woods. Was that the murderer or a bystander? Who else might be involved? There were no footprints, but that was understandable. The ground was dry and sprinkled in leaves. Wesley had hoped someone might have seen someone along the highway that night, but no one had come forward. He had absolutely no leads.

  “I’ll leave you guys to tape off the apartment,” Wesley said. “Reggie and I have another stop to make.”

  Finding the barn-red house was not a problem. However, no one was home.

  “I don’t hear anything inside and don’t see a car in the driveway. Let’s take a look around back,” Wesley said.

  The garage behind the house was painted the same color. “Well, look at this,” Reggie said. “Someone left the door open.”

  Parked inside was a Dodge Ram truck that matched the description given on the Motor Vehicle Registration. A check of the rear license plate confirmed the truck was indeed the same vehicle.