by BJ Bourg
Ox went next and, although Melvin could tell he was trying to avoid making eye contact with him, he kept glancing in Melvin’s direction.
“When I was a young fireman, I responded to a crash one night. It was to be my first crash with injuries. I’d already been on the job for a couple of years and I’d been to countless trainings, but nothing prepared me for what I would see that night.” Ox paused and swallowed hard. His eyes were misty and Melvin thought he would start crying. “Some drunk driver in a pickup truck hit a minivan one night. The occupants were trapped inside and the van burst into flames. When I arrived I was in my POV (personally owned vehicle) and I didn’t have my gear. I tried desperately to save them, but—” Ox lowered his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. When he continued detailing the horrors he faced that night, his voice crackled and he had to stop several times to summon the strength to go on.
Melvin stared in awe. He’d been involved in a number of high-stress situations with Ox and had never seen the man so emotional. He’d never heard Ox’s real name called and always guessed he had earned the nickname from being tough as an ox.
“I wasn’t able to save them and they burned to death in that van.” He shook his head. “It was horrible. No matter how many times I tell that story and how many years have passed, I still get choked up. But”—he waved his hand around the circle of chairs—“thanks to the founding members of this group, I’ve been able to come to terms with the events of that night and I was able to recognize early on that we are all human and there are limits to what we can do. As long as we do our best and give our all, we can put our heads on the pillow each and every night and sleep soundly, knowing we’ve done God’s work. It won’t always be easy and we’re sure to face trials and tribulations along the way, but, if we stick together and encourage one another as we have for the past several years, we can find a way to survive emotionally. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you walk away from the job in one piece but you’re an emotional wreck inside, you’re not a survivor—you’re a time bomb waiting to go off.” Ox turned his head from left to right, then handed the microphone to the person on his left to keep it going in the same direction.
When the microphone reached Melvin, he took it and handed it to Stephanie without saying a word. He expected an objection from someone, but no one seemed to notice. Stephanie stood immediately to her feet and talked about a call she’d answered about a toddler drowning in a swimming pool. “I’d practiced CPR on dummies a million times up to that point,” she recounted, “but it was the first time I had to perform it on a real person. When I saw how small the child was, I panicked. I couldn’t remember what to do. People were screaming at me to do something. The mother was begging me to help her child. I spent the first fifteen or twenty seconds just staring at the toddler. She couldn’t have been more than two years old. I had a niece that age and I kept seeing her face as I stared down. By the time I got it together and started working on the baby, it was too late.” She frowned and stared down at her feet. “Although the emergency room doctor told me the baby was already too far gone and I wouldn’t have saved her even if I would’ve started CPR immediately, I still blamed myself for the her death.”
Melvin sat in his chair feeling despondent. Twenty minutes ago Stephanie was jovial and didn’t seem to have a care in the world, yet here she was looking like she was about to break down. He began to feel more uncertain about attending these meetings. If I were to finally get over my situation, why would I come here once a month just to relive it and get all depressed again?
He made a mental note to pose that question to Stephanie when this was over. He didn’t have to wait long. About fifteen minutes later the last person had told her story and they concluded the sharing portion of the meeting. Next, everyone got in line for a slice or two of pizza and a cold drink. Melvin swallowed hard, took a plate with one piece and followed Stephanie to one end of the tables that were situated to the back of the room. He sat across from her.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” he asked.
“Sure.” She popped the top off a can of soda and poured it in a plastic cup. “Ask away.”
“You were in a good mood when you walked in, but then you told that story and everything seemed to change. You looked sad and depressed.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes…”
“So, why would you come here every month and tell your story?”
“I don’t come here every month and tell my story.” She smiled warmly. “I told that story for you. I wanted you to know what I’ve been through so you would know you’re not alone.”
Melvin picked at his pizza with a plastic fork, trying not to look at it. He didn’t know what to say. Finally, he asked, “Why’d you do it if it hurt you?”
“It’s therapy for me,” she explained simply. “Every time I tell the story, I cry a little less. I’m hoping someday I can talk about it without crying at all.”
“You seemed so happy when I first saw you tonight.”
“That’s because I was.”
“But how can you be so happy if you’ve got that weight in the back of your mind?”
Stephanie gave Melvin a knowing look. “After a while, you’ll go from thinking about it every second to every minute. And then, after a while longer, you might think about it every couple of hours. As you put more time and distance between you and the situation, you’ll go days and even months without thinking about it. For me, I only get sad now when I hear or see something that triggers a memory of that night, or when I come to these meetings and share my story.”
Melvin thought his pizza looked too much like Lance Beaman’s burnt body, so he pushed the plate aside. “How did you make it through those first few days?” he asked. “How were you able to deal with it until you reached the point of not thinking about it every second of every day?”
Stephanie looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, then leaned across the table until her face was inches from Melvin’s. “A wise person once told me you have to imagine the victim did something so horrible that they deserved what happened to them.”
Melvin lurched backward. “Wait…what? Who in the hell would do something like that?”
“Not so loud!” Stephanie hissed. “Look, I know it’s not a popular method of coping, but if you imagine Lance Beaman did something so horrible in his past life that he deserved to be burned alive, it’ll help you get through the initial pain.”
Melvin sat there trying to process what she’d just told him. “So, all I have to do is imagine Lance Beaman deserved to be burned alive and it’ll help ease whatever it is I’m feeling?”
“Yes, but you can’t just imagine it,” she warned. “You have to believe it.”
He studied the sweet woman in front of him. She scared him. “Did you do that with your victim? I mean, what on earth could a two-year-old child do that would warrant being drowned to death?”
Stephanie sighed, her eyes clouding over. “It’s amazing what your mind will make you believe when it’s trying to heal itself.”
CHAPTER 27
Wednesday, April 26
Mechant Loup Police Department, Southeast Louisiana
“We’ve been through every name on this list—some of them twice,” Justin was saying, “and no one knows the mystery guest.”
I was leaning back in my chair with my feet on the desk scanning the names on the list one last time. When I was done, I glanced over at Justin. We had been in my office since eight o’clock—over an hour—and we hadn’t gotten anywhere. I was starting to wonder if we were wasting our time searching for this mystery guest. “Did you hear back from the crime lab?”
He shook his head, stood to his feet. “I’ll call them after I use the little boy’s room.”
I dropped my feet heavily to the floor and sat with my elbows on the desktop, drumming my fingers as I went over everything we’d done so far. As evidence went, there wasn’t
much to go on. Even if the lighter produced evidence that led us to an individual, we couldn’t definitively tie it to the murder. There was always the possibility it was thrown from a vehicle or someone dropped it while cutting grass along the boulevard. “That’s what I’d say anyway,” I said out loud.
“What would you say?”
I looked up to see Susan leaning against the doorway. Her arms were folded in front of her and the muscles in her upper arms stretched the sleeves of her tan uniform shirt. I waved dismissively. “I was just talking to myself.”
“You do that a lot. I’m starting to think you’re older than you let on.” She sauntered over and sat on the corner of my desk, stared down at me. “I’m guessing it’s not going so great?”
“We haven’t gotten anywhere with the ledger. No one seems to know this stranger.”
“Find the motive, find the—”
“God, I’m starting to regret saying that.” I shook my head. “The motive for this one could be anything.”
“The most obvious reason for wanting him dead is the election, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded.
“And your prime suspects would be Pauline Cain and Zack Pitre, correct?”
I nodded again, then added, “But they each have alibi witnesses who put them elsewhere at the time of the murder.”
“Sure, but, other than the two candidates themselves, who has the most to lose if they don’t win the election?”
I studied Susan for a full minute before answering. “As far as I know, no one in Zack’s camp would lose anything if he didn’t become mayor, but Pauline is a different story.”
“Exactly!” Susan stabbed a finger in my chest. “So start looking at those people close to Pauline.” My expression must’ve been blank, because Susan cocked her head to the side. “What’s wrong?”
“You and I have the most to lose if Pauline doesn’t win, so I guess we’ll have to start right here.”
“That’s nonsense. We can each verify that we were home together when we got the call.”
“No one would believe that. They’d believe we were covering for each other because we were both in on it.”
“You’re missing the point entirely.” Susan placed her cool hands on either side of my face and moved forward until her nose was inches from mine. “Think about it…if this mystery guest killed Lance, then he has to support Pauline or Zack. Go to them and see if the description matches someone they know; someone close to them.”
My eyes widened. “That’s a brilliant idea!”
“I’m good, aren’t I?” Her face lighting up, she playfully kissed my forehead, strutted out of my office. Before she disappeared around the doorway, she called over her shoulder, “I was trained by the best.”
“Nope that was all you,” I said under my breath as I snatched the handset from its cradle. I dialed the town hall and asked for Mayor Cain. She picked up in a hurry.
“Hey, Clint, how’d it go with Francis? Did he verify we were together?”
“Yeah, he did.”
There was an audible sigh from the other end. “Thank God. I told you so.”
“We might have another problem, though.”
“Oh no, what’s that?” Her voice betrayed the angst she suddenly felt.
“We’re looking for someone who might serve on your campaign committee. It would be a white male, well-groomed, and he wears a fancy suit.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “You’ve just described half the men on my campaign.”
“Do they all wear red ties?”
Pauline sucked in her breath and my ears perked up. “Oh, dear,” she said in a low voice, “you don’t think what I think you’re thinking, do you?”
“And what’s that?”
“This man who wears the red tie…why are you looking for him? You don’t suppose he’s involved with Lance’s murder, do you?”
“Hey, Clint, I just got off the phone with the lab—”
I quickly waved at Justin, who had burst into my office, to let him know I was in the middle of something. He abruptly stopped walking and talking, then approached me quietly.
“We don’t know for sure,” I said. “All we know is that someone fitting that description went to Lance’s campaign event on Sunday. Do you know someone who matches?”
Pauline paused for a long moment. “Clint, it’s impossible. There’s no way he would’ve done something like this. He’s loyal to me, yes, and that is exactly why he would never have done anything like this. He would’ve known it would reflect poorly on me, so he would never have done it.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“I think you already know.”
Although she couldn’t see me, my eyes widened. “You’re right, I do know.”
CHAPTER 28
“Who is it?” Justin whispered as I continued speaking with Pauline.
“Please, Clint,” Pauline said on the other end of the phone, “you’ve got to promise me he never knows I said his name. I don’t want him thinking I betrayed him or that I suspected him of doing anything like this, because I know better.”
“You didn’t say his name. I figured it out, but he’ll never know we had this conversation. The only thing I need from you is a picture so I can prepare a photographic lineup. If someone at the party can identify him, then I can leave you out of it completely.”
“Picture?” she asked. “What kind of picture?”
“A frontal face shot, something similar to a passport photo.”
“I have some pictures on my website, but they’re from campaign events. They’re not professionally done. You could easily find those yourself if you would simply view my website.”
I slid my chair toward my computer, started typing in the name of her website. When the home page popped up, I asked where to find the picture.
“Go to the Appearances page,” she said, “and scroll through the pictures. I can’t log in to my campaign site from work, so I can’t tell you exactly where he is on the page, but there are a bunch of pictures of him. He’s with me at every event.”
“Was he with you on Sunday?”
“No. I spoke to him early Sunday morning, but he didn’t say anything about attending Lance’s event.”
“Did he know about your affair with Francis?”
Pauline was silent, then said in a low voice, “No.”
I thanked her and was about to hang up when she stopped me. “Please go easy on him. I know he had nothing to do with this, so I hope you won’t interrogate him and make him feel like he’s being accused of any wrongdoing. He’s been really good to me and I don’t want—”
“It’ll be fine.” I ended the call and clicked on a picture of the man standing all alone at one of Pauline’s events, near a table of finger food.
Justin was hovering over me now and he leaned forward and squinted to read the caption. “Who in the hell is Stephen Butler?”
“He used to work for Hays and Pauline Cain out at their house,” I explained. “Pauline let him go not long after her husband’s murder, but, from what I understand, he’ll never have to work another day in his life.”
Justin grunted. “If he killed Lance Beaman, he’ll be doing hard labor for the rest of his life.”
I only nodded as I cropped his head out of the photo and saved it to a file. I searched through the other events and found a better photo of him. It looked more like a mug shot, but without the prison uniform. As I began searching our electronic databank of prisoners, I asked Justin about the call he received from the lab.
“Oh, yeah, they recovered a fingerprint from the lid of the lighter, and they also swabbed the flint wheel for DNA. They ran the print through AFIS (Automated Fingerprint Identification System), but they didn’t get a hit. They’re still working on the DNA.”
“What about the glass from the murder scene and the samples of accelerant?”
He smiled and exposed a row of pearly whites. “What did I tell you? That test only confirmed w
hat my nose already knew.” He started to spout some technical terms, but I stopped him.
“Consider your audience,” I said. “Keep it simple.”
“Gasoline and motor oil. The glass was thick and green, probably from an old soda bottle.”
“That narrows it down to the millions.” I stopped what I was doing to consider the evidence. “What about the shell casings? Did they run them through IBIS (Integrated Ballistics Identification System)?”
He nodded. “Nothing.”
“God, I hope Stephen Butler either did it or leads us to the one who did, because if he didn’t or doesn’t, we’re screwed.”
Justin took a seat beside me and watched as I worked on the photo lineup. Neither of us said much of anything as I used the drawing program we’d purchased two years ago to create the same kind of outfit for each of the six men in my photo spread. Once I was satisfied, I printed the document in color on photo paper and handed it to Justin. “What do you think?”
“Number Two did it.”
“Is it that obvious?” I studied each man’s mug to make sure they appeared fair. While the other photographs were of prisoners and Stephen’s was from a social setting, I thought I’d done a decent job of disguising that fact.
“Nah, I just know a guilty bastard when I see one.”
I grunted. “They’re all guilty; unless you believe the others were wrongfully arrested and convicted.”
“Well, Number Two has the eyes of an arsonist. Look at him. You can see the devil in those eyes.”
I leaned close, shook my head. “My devil vision must be blurry, because I don’t see anything.”
I slipped the photo lineup in a file folder and gave Chet Robichaux a call. As I’d expected from any retired man, he was cutting his grass and invited me to meet him in his driveway. “I might even put you to work,” he said. “I’ve got a cypress stump that needs to come out of the ground and I could use the extra muscle.”
