by BJ Bourg
“Should we talk to this Zack Pitre character—?”
We both stopped and looked up as Susan stomped through the door and dropped a letter on my desk. “I don’t know why I keep getting your mail in my box.”
I shrugged and turned back to Justin. “Melvin and Baylor interviewed him already. Melvin said Pitre’s mom claims he was home with her at the time of the murder.”
Susan stopped in the doorway, indicated toward me with her left hand. “Speaking of Melvin, have you talked to him today?”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t he come on tonight?”
“Yeah, he does.” She scrunched her chin and I asked her what was going on. She glanced at Justin. “Can I have a word alone with Clint?”
Justin nodded and walked to the hallway. “I guess I’ll call my boss and tell him we’ve still got nothing,” he called over his shoulder. “I bet he tells me to pack it up and head home.”
When Justin was out of earshot, Susan leaned closer to me. “I spoke with Melvin earlier today to tell him he could have a few days off if he needed it, but he told me he was perfectly fine.”
“He wasn’t fine yesterday.”
“Right, but he sounded different today. He actually sounded okay, much better than he did yesterday.”
I scowled. “That’s a rapid turn-around.”
“That’s why I’m worried. Do you think he’s on something? Maybe…” she hesitated and I knew where this was going.
“Are you wondering if he’s drinking or self-medicating?”
She nodded.
“I can talk to him and find out.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She pushed off of my desk and hooked a thumb over her gun belt. “I’m just worried about him.”
“So am I.” She walked to her office and I walked to the lobby, where Justin was arguing with his supervisor on the phone.
“Just give me one more day,” he was saying. “I know we’re close.”
I stood waiting for him to finish the conversation. When he finally said good-bye, he sucked in some air and exhaled forcibly. “We’ve got twenty-four hours to solve this thing or they’re pulling me back to Baton Rouge. He said we’ve got two other fatal fires in the western part of the state that need my attention.”
“I guess we’d better get to it then.” I pushed my way outside, where the temperature had cooled to about seventy-eight degrees. “But I have to check in on Melvin first.”
When I arrived at Melvin’s house, I asked Justin to give me a few minutes, and I got the feeling he was growing tired of being left out of our inter-departmental business. I had to knock several times before Melvin opened the door. A towel hung around his shoulders and water dripped from his ears.
“Hey, Clint, I just finished taking a shower.” He craned his neck to see past me. “Is that Justin? What’s going on? Did y’all catch the person who tried to shoot me?”
“No, and I’m sorry we haven’t yet.”
He shrugged. “I know how it goes. You’ll get him before long. So, what’s up?”
“I was worried about you—wondering if you’re okay to go back to work.”
He grinned, and it appeared genuine. “I’m perfectly fine, thanks to the meeting last night.” He quickly lifted a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I still have my moments of doubt and I smell Lance’s burnt flesh often, but I learned something last night that’s helping me cope with what happened.”
I was having my doubts that one meeting could have such a profound impact on someone. “Oh, yeah, what’d you learn? It might be helpful to me someday.”
“I just imagined that Lance did something so horrible in his past life that he deserved to be burned alive.”
I nodded slowly, studying Melvin’s face. He wasn’t joking. “And it worked?”
“It did.”
“What on earth did you imagine?”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
I must’ve been staring at him with a weird expression on my face, because he asked what was wrong.
“Nothing at all. You just gave me an idea.” We made small talk for a minute and I told him to call if he needed anything.
I sauntered back to my Tahoe, where Justin was talking on his cell phone to another fire marshal. He was giving him instructions on processing a fire scene. When he ended the call, he shook his head. “We’ve got two new agents and they’re catching some complicated fires. I’m having a hard time convincing my supervisor to let me stay down here for the twenty-four hours he promised.”
“Well, Melvin offered a new perspective on this whole case.”
“And what’s that?”
“What if Lance did something so awful in his past life that he deserved to be burned alive?”
Justin rubbed his chin in thought. “I can only think of a few sins worthy of that kind of punishment, but if he did commit those sins, this would be a justifiable homicide, indeed.”
“I used to say if we find the motive, then we find the killer. If we can find out what sin Lance committed, we should be able to narrow down the pool of suspects.”
“Don’t you mean broaden the pool of suspects? As it stands now, we’ve narrowed it done to nothing.”
I recognized that he did have a point, parked under the police department and shut off my engine. We walked down the street for some burgers. After they were ready, we brought them back to my office and ate while we began scouring through police records, internet search engines, and digital news reports, trying to find every incident in which his name was mentioned.
“Any luck?” I asked after about an hour of searching.
“There were some people saying some things about him on his Facebook page, but nothing worth killing over. One man was angry because Lance closed a deal on a house for him and the man found out he had termites a year later. He wrote, If Lance will lie about termites, what won’t he lie about? And he misspelled termites.” Justin shrugged. “It’s a weak motive, though. It’s not like Justin planted the termites.”
“How do you know?” I countered. “Let’s say he did plant the termites—would the man be justified in burning him alive?”
“Not only would he be justified, but it would be symbolic. Fire is about the only thing that can kill a termite.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
He told me and I wrote it down. I ran a name inquiry and found out the man had two priors, one for DWI. “Well, that’s a start. Anyone else?”
Justin shook his head. “Nope, that’s it. Seems no one had a real beef with him.”
“Let’s try his wife.” I packed up my notes and shoved them into a file, and we set out to find Mrs. Beaman. It wasn’t hard. She was sitting on her front porch reading a Bible. I waved as we approached. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Beaman?”
“Someone murdered my husband…how the hell do you think I feel?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Poor choice of words.”
She sighed, waved her forgiveness. “Please, come on inside. I’ve got some fresh lemon aid.”
I was surprised how friendly she was being, considering the way she’d spoken to me the last time. I scanned the area for news vans, just in case they were laying in wait.
“Does everyone in this town make lemon aid?” Justin asked out of the corner of his mouth as we followed her across the porch. He tried to speak low enough so only I would hear, but he failed miserably.
“They might make lemon aid,” Mrs. Beaman said, “but they don’t make it fresh. I pick my own lemons off my own tree and squeeze them myself.”
He flashed a sheepish grin, asked for a glass. “If you go through all that trouble, the least I can do is drink it.”
Once we were seated around her table, she slid an announcement card in my direction. “These are the details on the service. I would like y’all to be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Again, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“So am I, young man, so am I.” She dabbed a
t her right eye with a dish towel and set about pouring three glasses of yellow refreshment. She placed a glass in front of both of us and then sat down with her own. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We’re trying to delve into Lance’s past and see if there’s anyone who might have a beef against him, someone who might want to harm him.”
“There’s only one person who wished him ill, and that was Pauline Cain. I already told you it was her, so why hasn’t she been arrested yet? I told that reporter the same thing I told you—about the affair and everything—and they were eager to hear about it.”
I scowled. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why? So you can protect your precious little boss?”
“No, ma’am…so I can control what information gets out to the public. The killer is still out there, so the less the general public knows while the case is ongoing, the better for us.”
“The way I figure,” she countered, “the more people who know, the better the chances of Pauline cracking and ‘fessing up. That woman will fold under pressure, I just know it.”
Justin and I took turns asking Mrs. Beaman more questions about Lance, but she would not say a bad thing about the man. According to her, everyone loved him and he’d never had so much as an argument with anyone other than Pauline.
I left there wondering if I was wrong about Pauline. What if her alibi witness was in on the murder and they were covering for each other? Stranger things had happened in criminal cases. And if so, how would I prove it?
CHAPTER 31
Monday, May 1
It had been eight days since Lance Beaman was burned to death, and I was still no closer to solving his case than I was in the first minutes of the investigation. “How’s my tie?” I asked Susan, who was standing beside me in our bathroom.
She grabbed my shoulder and twisted my body until I was facing her, smirked when she saw the knot in my tie. “You still doing that half-Windsor thing?”
“That what?”
“The knot—it’s a half-Windsor.”
“Oh, I call it the slanted knot.” When she had finished jerking it here and pushing it there, I turned toward the mirror. I looked tired, but that was to be expected. True to his word, Justin’s supervisor had called him back to Baton Rouge exactly twenty-four hours after promising to give him twenty-four hours, and I’d been left to work the case alone. I didn’t mind, though, because I enjoyed working alone. What I didn’t like was hitting dead ends.
I’d spent most of the week canvassing the Mechant Loup-North neighborhood—I did it three times—but didn’t turn up anything. I even spread out into the surrounding neighborhoods, hitting North Pine especially hard, but met with the same results. I collected the names and dates of birth of every resident in the area—none of them refused to provide the information—and their recent visitors. I ran every name up, down, and sideways through every database available to law enforcement, but didn’t turn up any red flags. I interviewed the man who had left the comment on Lance’s Facebook page, but his alibi was solid. In my canvass of the neighborhoods, I’d viewed the footage of every home surveillance system I could find. Still, I didn’t turn up a single shred of evidence that would help me identify who had killed Lance and taken shots at Melvin.
“Want me to go to the funeral with you?” Susan pulled on her uniform shirt and zipped it up, then fastened the buttons in place. “I can attend as the chief of police, but I can be an extra set of eyes.”
I nodded, thanked her. Even if Mrs. Beaman hadn’t invited me, I was going to attend anyway. Someone wanted Lance dead and I’d investigated everyone with an obvious motive, but I kept coming up empty. And the more I came up empty, the more I started thinking I was wrong about Pauline. Hell, I was even starting to dream up ways to covertly obtain fingerprints and a DNA sample from her.
I had received a call from the lab two days ago to let me know they’d developed a DNA profile from the flint wheel of the lighter. They’d run it through the Combined DNA Index System (CODIS) but there hadn’t been a hit. That, along with the fact that the fingerprints from the lighter were not in AFIS and there was no match on the shell casings in IBIS, led me to believe this killing was not perpetrated by a documented criminal. If this person was a criminal, he or she had never been caught yet. If this person wasn’t a criminal, it could be anyone—and that included Pauline Cain.
“Ready or not,” I said, “it’s time to go.”
Susan never wore much makeup, and she didn’t need to. (I thought it was a sin for a woman that beautiful to cover up God’s handiwork with something man had created.) She didn’t make an exception for the funeral. After putting on a little lipstick, she followed me outside and we headed for the church in separate vehicles. She pulled off the road about a mile from the church and let me drive up first so it wouldn’t be obvious that we were there together.
I scowled when I saw two news vans in the church parking lot. A cameraman was filming a news reporter who was saying something while pointing toward the church. No doubt she was saying that the body of Lance Beaman was inside of that building and his case remained unsolved. I knew they would bombard me with questions, so I drove around to the back and slipped in the rear entrance.
“Detective Wolf,” Chet said when he recognized me, “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, sir.” I shook his hand, fielded a dozen questions about the status of the case. When he had exhausted his inquiry, I made my way past him and toward the front of the church, where Mrs. Beaman was standing with her son and four or five other people I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t Catholic, but I stopped near the casket to pay my respects to the remains of her husband. The casket was closed, as would be expected, and I wondered if Mrs. Beaman had been allowed to view her husband’s body.
“Did you find my husband’s killer?” Mrs. Beaman asked loudly when I turned from the casket to shake her hand. Her eyes seemed to focus on a spot somewhere deep in my forehead. I knew she must’ve been taking something to help her cope with her loss, but it seemed she was not taking it as prescribed, because the changes in her mood over the past few times I’d seen her were noticeable.
I frowned. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m working the case night and day, and I won’t rest until justice is served.”
She grunted and turned away from me. Not wanting to upset her more, I simply walked off and stood to the left side of the church where I could monitor the folks who walked up to greet her. If I couldn’t find the killer outside of the family, I would have to look to Lance’s inner circle. He had a son, two daughters, and six grandchildren, but only one of the grandchildren was old enough to formulate the intent to commit murder. I studied his children as they maneuvered through the crowd, greeting people, laughing, crying—probably sharing fond memories of their father.
I even eyed Mrs. Beaman for a long moment. What if she wanted her husband dead? Of course, it wasn’t as simple as wanting the man dead. If that’s what she wanted, she could’ve just put a bullet in him. No, I had to ask myself what would make a wife so angry that she’d want to burn her husband alive. Minor infractions such as leaving his beard shavings in the sink, forgetting the toilet seat up, or snoring too loud might piss off a wife, but not to this level. No, this was serious.
Infidelity, perhaps? It was one of the oldest motives for murder. As soon as the thought entered my mind, I started to dismiss it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around a woman burning her husband alive for adultery, but then I paused to consider the emotions that were involved in an adulterous relationship. I actually knew a few women who often argued vehemently that adultery should be a criminal offense and the punishment should be death, so this was definitely not out of the realm of possibilities. But, if Lance had been unfaithful to his wife, with whom had he cheated?
I scanned the women in the room, trying to find someone who appeared out of place and who was more emotional than the other guests. I didn’t find anyone fitting that d
escription. I did see Susan at the back of the church speaking to the funeral home director. I smiled when she looked in my direction. She smiled back and began to work the crowd.
I was beginning to think I’d hit a dead end when I noticed a man at the back of the line of people who were waiting to pay their respects. The line had dwindled, but there were still a half dozen people in front of him. He was an older gentleman, probably in his mid-sixties, and he was dressed nice enough. A gray suit coat with matching slacks, a white shirt that had been starched to perfection, and shiny black shoes. He had a head of thick hair and a neatly trimmed beard that matched his wardrobe. It wasn’t his clothes or his grooming habits that caught my attention. It was his forehead and his eyes.
There were droplets of sweat forming at his hairline and his eyes shifted nervously about as he moved closer to the casket. No one seemed to be paying him much attention, so I figured he was either a family member or a personal friend. When there was only one slender lady left in line ahead of him, he licked his lips and took a deep breath. I leaned forward, wondering what he was going to do. I wanted to glance over at Mrs. Beaman to see if she noticed the man, but I didn’t want to miss what was about to happen. The slender lady finally turned from the casket and made her way to Mrs. Beaman. The man in gray stepped fully in front of the casket, made the sign of the cross, and—
What the hell?
CHAPTER 32
No one seemed to notice the man in gray as he hurried past Lance’s family and headed in my direction. Our eyes locked for a brief moment as he brushed by me, heading for the main entrance to the church. I scanned the service hall for Susan and saw her speaking with a group of people dressed in black. I couldn’t get her attention, so I spun from my spot and began following the man. I needed to know more about him, so I couldn’t let him get away. He very well could be the person who killed Lance and attempted to murder Melvin.
The man had increased his step and was walking with his head down. I matched his pace, still trying to catch Susan’s eye.
