by BJ Bourg
“Your first job is demanding enough.” Claire had frowned and shook her head. “No, I’m going back to the bank. I spoke with my old manager last week and he said they have an opening. I can start anytime I want.”
Melvin had felt betrayed. He told Claire everything and got her input on every major decision he made, yet she had decided to go back to work on her own, without even letting him know what she was thinking. She told him he was being foolish when he brought it up, so he dropped it.
Now, staring down at his phone, he wondered how she would take the news that he was working late.
“Hey, Melvin, are you ready?”
Melvin jerked around to see Baylor’s head sticking inside the door to his office.
“Sorry if I interrupted something,” Baylor explained. “I knocked three times really hard, and Beth told me it would be okay to just open the door.”
Melvin straightened and waved it off. “Yeah, of course, no problem. Let’s go find this guy.”
Melvin led the way to the parking lot below and they climbed into his truck. As they drove toward the little bridge that separated the western side of the town from the eastern side, Melvin explained what all had happened the night before and why they were making contact with Zack Pitre.
“At this point, we don’t know if he’s a suspect or a potential victim, so we need to be careful how we approach him. We can’t go in with guns blazing, but we have to be careful in case he is the killer.”
Baylor’s face was twisted in a weird expression and Melvin asked him what was wrong.
“It’s just that, um, one of my good buddies—the one who told me about this place—died in a helicopter crash during a military training exercise in California.” Baylor paused and wiped his face. “He would’ve survived, but he was trapped in the harness and…and, um…he burned to death.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Melvin frowned as he read the hurt on Baylor’s face. “If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.”
Baylor nodded. “Thanks. The worst part about it though? The pilot escaped without a scratch. Instead of running into the fire to try and save my friend, he ran away from the helicopter because he was afraid it would explode.”
Melvin gripped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead as he remembered how he had tried to rescue Lance the night before. His hands still burned in places from where the flames had licked him with their unforgiving tongues. Each time the throbbing pain returned he simply accepted it, knowing it was nothing compared to the horror that Lance had endured during his last minutes on earth. Sure, he had been terrified. He thought the fuel tank would explode and the flames would swallow him up just as they were swallowing up Lance, but he couldn’t just stand idly by and watch while the man was tortured.
“Did you see it?” Baylor’s voice broke through Melvin’s thoughts.
“See what?”
“The man burning?”
Melvin sighed, nodded slowly. “I tried to help him, but I couldn’t. The vehicle was already engulfed and I just couldn’t get to him.”
Baylor pointed to the back of Melvin’s right hand, where a blister had formed earlier in the morning. “Is that from your efforts?”
Melvin just kept driving.
Baylor pointed out several more blisters and a portion of Melvin’s short sleeved uniform shirt that was melted. “If that damn pilot would’ve had a small fraction of the injuries on his body that you have, I would’ve felt differently.”
In his peripheral vision, Melvin saw Baylor turn his head to stare out the passenger side window, and it looked like he took a swipe at his eyes with his right hand. After a few moments of silence, Baylor asked, “Did you know this man? This Lance Beaman—is he your friend or something?”
Melvin shook his head. “I don’t even like him. He’s an asshole and if he would’ve won the election for mayor, he would’ve gotten rid of Susan and Clint, so there’s no way in hell I was ever going to work for him.”
“You see what I mean!” Baylor slapped the dashboard. “You risked your life for an asshole, but that damn pilot couldn’t risk his life for a brother in arms—someone who covered his ass while he did the flying.”
Melvin only nodded. He was through talking about it, and he certainly didn’t want to think about it anymore. Each time he did, his heart started racing and he’d have trouble breathing. At the time, he didn’t think of anything but getting Lance out of that car. In the hours since then, all he could think about was his family. What would’ve happened to Claire and Delilah had he died in that blaze alongside Lance? There was no way Claire would have been able to support herself and a baby on her salary alone. She made less than half of what he made, so she would never have been able to pay all of the bills. Hell, she couldn’t even pay the house note and still be able to buy food for them.
Melvin tried to push the thoughts from his mind as they approached Zack’s house from the north. He squinted to read the house number on the gray mailbox they were approaching and nodded. “This is it.”
Baylor grunted. “Not what I’d expect from a politician. I thought they all had money.”
Melvin had been around local politics long enough to know better, but he was also a little surprised by the house. It was a small white house with wooden siding that had seen its better days many years ago. Most of the paint was chipped away, exposing bare wood beneath. The green shutters were nonfunctional and most of them were rotten, with one of them hanging precariously from a single hinge and threatening to fall to the ground. The tin roof was mostly orange from rust. Melvin didn’t suspect the place had central air and heating, because there were two window units on the northern side of the house.
“I guess he fired the yard boy,” Baylor said as Melvin pulled to a stop behind a small gray SUV that was parked under a narrow carport. The grass hadn’t been cut in at least a few weeks and thick patches of clovers gave the yard a bumpy appearance. “It’s a lazy man who won’t keep up his yard.”
Melvin shut off the engine and stepped out of his truck. “Maybe he’s been too busy campaigning to cut the grass.”
“Or too busy burning people.”
The comment made Melvin track his hand toward his weapon. He stepped forward and felt the front quarter panel on the gray SUV. It was cold, but that didn’t mean anything. The murder had taken place many hours earlier.
Melvin approached the front of the house and motioned for Baylor to step to one side of the door while he stepped to the opposite side. He knocked loudly. The sun was climbing to the east, but the dew hadn’t burned off the grass yet and they’d tracked moisture on the concrete. Melvin noticed theirs were the only wet shoeprints on the walkway. He knocked again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” cackled a woman’s voice from inside. “Hold your damn horses!”
Footsteps pounded toward the door and it finally jerked open. On the other side of the screen door, a short robust woman wearing a thin nightgown stood staring up at them. Her eyes bore into Melvin first, then Baylor. “What is this?”
“We’re sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Melvin began, “but we really need to speak with your husband, Zack Pitre.”
“Well, that won’t be possible.” The woman slammed the door shut and Melvin heard her footsteps moving deeper into the house.
“What the hell?” Melvin had asked Beth to run an address inquiry and she gave him this address. He banged on the door again. The woman began cursing from inside. She tramped back to the door and flung it open.
“What now?”
“I apologize, ma’am, but I was under the impression that Zack Pitre lived here.”
“He did…before he died.”
Melvin’s brow furrowed. “Died? When?”
“About ten years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Melvin said, thinking quickly. “I must be looking for Junior then.”
The woman grunted, turned her back on the officers. “Zack! Some people are here for you!”
Melvin heard rustling from a back bedroom and, in a groggy voice, someone called out, “Is it about the election?”
“How the hell should I know?” the woman retorted.
Melvin tried to see inside the house, but it was too dark. Bumping sounds came from a hidden room to the left. He glanced at Baylor. “Anything?”
Baylor shook his head. “It’s too dark.”
Finally, a door slammed and a young man walked up shrugging into an oversized shirt. When he pulled it down over the white belly that hung over his beltline, he righted the thick glasses on his nose and pushed open the screen door.
“Can I help—oh, cops.” He took a step back into the house. “My mom didn’t say y’all were cops. What’s going on?”
“We’re here on a welfare check,” Melvin explained.
Zack looked confused. “I don’t know what you mean. What’s a welfare check?”
“We’re here to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” He looked over at Baylor and then back at Melvin. “Is that all?”
“Well, there’s been an incident and we believe your life might be in danger.” Melvin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, allowing Zack to process what he’d said. When Zack only stared blankly at him, Melvin continued. “One of the mayoral candidates has been killed—murdered—and we want to make sure no one is targeting—”
“Which one?” Zack’s face actually lit up and Melvin almost slapped him. “Was it Pauline Cain?”
“No, it was Lance Beaman.”
Melvin found the grin on Zack’s face disturbing.
“So, does that mean I’m number two in the polls now?” Zack asked.
Trying his best to maintain his calm, Melvin said, “A man was brutally murdered and all you care about are the poll numbers?”
“I mean, I feel sorry for him, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. I have a campaign to run.”
“Do you mind telling me where you were last night?”
“Sure. I was here at home with my mom.”
“And I guess she’ll be willing to verify that?”
“You damn right I’ll verify that,” called the woman from the back of the house. “He was here with me all night. He didn’t kill nobody. My Zachary wouldn’t hurt a fly if it landed in his cereal.”
Melvin’s phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Claire. Ignoring the call, he told Zack to contact the police department if he saw anything suspicious. “I don’t want to alarm you, but until we know what’s going on, it’s best if you take some precautions.”
Zack smiled and ushered them to the door. “I’ll be just fine, officer—what’d you say your name was again?”
“Melvin. Melvin Saltzman.”
“I’ll be just fine, Officer Melvin.”
“What do you think?” Baylor asked when they got in Melvin’s truck. “He’s acting a little weird. Do you think it’s because he’s guilty or is he just a few slices shy of a loaf of bread?”
“He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the news, that’s for sure.” Melvin’s phone started ringing again. There seemed to be something about the tone of the ring that made him think Claire was angry.
Baylor indicated toward the phone with his head. “Maybe you should take that.”
“Yeah…maybe.”
CHAPTER 10
Sheriff Buck Turner’s Ranch
It was a little before eight o’clock when I turned onto the long dirt road that led to Sheriff Turner’s barn. Susan had asked several times why we were meeting with the sheriff, but I kept giving her the same answer; insurance.
I had called his cell and asked for a meeting at his office, but he told me he’d taken the day off and that I could meet him at his ranch. I’d never been there before, so he’d given me the directions.
“If by insurance you mean we’re milking cows,” Susan said as the barn came into view through the trees up ahead, “you’re on your own.”
I only smiled and parked near a metal gate. We hadn’t even stepped out of my Tahoe when Sheriff Turner came galloping up on a large brown horse. At six-foot-three and two-hundred-forty pounds, he was a big man, but the horse made him look like a giant. That—and his worn leather boots, large Stetson, and the single-action 1875 Outlaw Colt .45 revolver riding low on his hip—gave the appearance that he’d just stepped out of a Louis L’Amour novel. Like the sheriffs of the Old West, he was tough as nails and as loyal a friend as anyone could hope to have. He’d always been there when we needed him, and I was hoping he’d be there once more.
“Howdy, Clint.” Sheriff Turner dropped from the horse with deceptive grace. He had worked cows his entire life, until a few years ago when he decided to jump into politics and run for the top law enforcement job in the parish. With absolutely no political experience to his name, he’d unseated the most popular sheriff in Louisiana. He was now two years into his first four-year term. “It looks like Pauline’s chances of keeping her job just went up to about ninety-nine percent.”
I walked to the gate and waited for him to open it. “That’s why I’m here.”
He removed his Stetson and pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped his face dry. Although it was still early in the morning, it was already seventy degrees and it promised to be a hot one. “Please don’t tell me she’s involved with killing off her competition.”
I raised a hand. “I have no evidence whatsoever and I don’t think it’s in her character to do something like that, but I’ve got to protect myself and the integrity of the investigation in case it heads in that direction.”
Sheriff Turner was thoughtful as he studied me with his weathered face. “What can I do?”
I glanced at Susan, who was also studying me, and said, “Well, I’d like you to deputize Susan and me before we question Pauline. That way, if she tries to fire us we can continue with the investigation and do what we have to do to see it through.”
“I see.” He shoved his Stetson back in place. “You know if she tries to fire you that would mean she’s probably guilty.”
“I’m aware.”
He thought on it some more, then raised his calloused hand in the air. “Raise your right hands and repeat after me…”
Susan and I each raised our hands and repeated the oath of office for the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office. Once we were done, Sheriff Turner picked up his cell phone and called his secretary. “Yep,” he said when his secretary answered and hollered something at him, “I know I’m supposed to be off, but duty calls. I’ve just deputized Clint Wolf and Susan Wilson Wolf. I need you to get with personnel and process their commissions immediately.” He paused and glanced over his phone. “I assume y’all can pick them up this morning?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We have to attend Lance’s autopsy and then we’ll head right over.”
He turned back to his cell phone and told his secretary to have the commission cards and badges ready and waiting by nine o’clock. When he ended the call, he dropped the phone in his shirt pocket. “Now, don’t go expecting a check from my office.” He laughed, but then stopped abruptly. “Of course, if Pauline does fire y’all, I’ve got two spots just waiting for the both of you.”
“We’ll remember that if we find ourselves out of a job.” I shook his hand and thanked him. Susan did the same. “Oh, and Sheriff,” I said as I reached the door to my cruiser, “thanks for attending our wedding. It meant a lot.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“So, that’s what you had up your sleeve,” Susan said when we were jostling up the dirt road, the sheriff’s ranch in the rearview mirror. “I’ve never considered going to work for the sheriff’s office before, but I guess it’s a real possibility now.”
“I hope not,” I admitted. “If Pauline’s innocent—and God I hope she is—she’ll stay out of our way and let us do our job. She knows us well enough to know we’ll get down to the truth and figure it out.”
“Yeah, w
ell let’s hope our luck hasn’t run out.”
I didn’t want to admit that luck sometimes played a role in solving crimes, because, like Susan mentioned, luck had a way of running out—and this was the wrong case for our luck to end.
We didn’t say much more on the drive to the coroner’s office. We had to wait in the parking lot for fifteen minutes before Doctor Louise Wong arrived. She hurried from her vehicle, struggling to hold her purse, keys, and a large bag while also unlocking the door to the coroner’s office.
“It’s been a crazy morning,” she said as we followed her toward the back of the building. “My kid’s throwing up, the babysitter called in sick, and my mom decided to start having chest pains. When I called my husband to tell him to turn around and come back home, I heard his cell phone ringing in the bedroom—and he was halfway to New Orleans.” She dropped her things on a desk and opened the door to the morgue. “I swear, I’d win the award for having the worst damn day ever—”
She stopped talking when she saw Lance Beaman’s body lying in a supine position on the stainless steel table at the center of the room. “Oh, I stand corrected…Mr. Beaman gets that award.”
Doctor Wong’s attendant, a young fellow wearing scrubs, shoe covers, a clear plastic face shield, and gloves, quickly moved to her side. “I prepped the body as ordered, Doctor.”
