Silent Trigger: A London Carter Novel (London Carter Mystery Series Book 3)

by BJ Bourg

  She and I looked up when we reached the target stand. I shined my light on the evil man’s face and nodded my approval. Dean’s rifle was dead-on.

  “Holy shit!” Dawn said. “How many rounds did you fire?”

  “Three.”

  “And they all went in the same hole?”

  I nodded and changed out the target. As we walked back toward the firing line, I detailed the integrated act of shooting and explained how marksmanship was mostly a mental exercise. “It’s easy to put three bullets in the same hole on a good day, but you have to be able to maintain that level of proficiency in stressful situations and under adverse conditions.”

  “Like bad weather?”

  “Yep…extreme heat, freezing temperatures, thunder storms”—I waved my hands around—“and even flying vampires.”

  She laughed.

  “You have to learn to block out the elements and operate within a bubble,” I said.

  “But how do you train yourself to block that stuff out?”

  “It all begins in training. If I’m doing a stalk during a practical exercise and I happen to set up in an ant pile, I don’t let myself move. I stay there until I’m clear to take the shot. When I’m done, I do what I would in a real situation—stealthily move out of position.”

  “That’s crazy! And you’ve actually done that before?”

  “More times than I can count. I was sniper crawling into position once and crawled face first over an ant hill. They tore my face up like I was public enemy number one.”

  “What happened?” Her eyes were wide as she stared incredulously at me. “Did you stop to brush them off or anything?”

  “No, I kept crawling until I reached my position.” I grinned. “Once you get off of their property, they eventually pull back and leave you alone.”

  “What about snakes?”

  “When I attended my first sniper school I came face-to-face with a copperhead during a stalk.” I grunted. “It was almost too late when I noticed it. My face was literally inches from where it was coiled up under a windblown tree.”

  “Did you jump up and run?”

  “No, I slowly backed off and—moving millimeters at a time—grabbed a branch and encouraged it to move on.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “It’s not crazy, it’s serious business. When the lives of hostages are hanging in the balance, we don’t have the luxury of comfort and we don’t get to give in to our fears.”

  Dawn was thoughtful as she watched me record the shots into my data book. “I don’t think I could ever do that.”

  I looked up and studied her dark eyes in the dim glow from my headlights. They seemed ghostly. “You’d be surprised how far you can push your body when you put your mind to it.”

  She just frowned and said, “I don’t know…”

  When I was done with my data book, I pointed to the rifle. “Do you want to take a shot?”

  Dawn’s brow furrowed and she cocked her head sideways. “What happened to your unwritten rule? You know, the one that says only someone with your DNA can shoot your rifle?”

  My skin was tanned from lots of exposure to the sun, but I know I blushed.

  “Oh, so you heard about that?” I asked, buying time to think of a good explanation.

  “I did.”

  I quickly pointed to the rifle. “Well, it’s not mine…it’s for Dean, and the rule only applies to one’s own rifle.”

  “Sure.” She smiled and stepped closer to me. “I’d love to shoot it.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday, October 1

  I woke up early and eagerly got dressed for work. Sheriff Chiasson had insisted I take off a week—with pay—so the investigation into the shooting of Gaylord LeDoux could be completed and then reviewed by the district attorney’s office. He’d called my cell phone on Friday to tell me the DA had agreed with Sheriff Tyler’s findings that the shooting was justified, and he told me I was cleared to return to work today.

  I was relieved it hadn’t taken longer, because I was going crazy sitting around the house. I must’ve dry-fired a few million times and reread a dozen old Louis L’Amour novels from my childhood. I’d kept every book of Mr. L’Amour’s I’d ever purchased and, while they were worn from much use, they were still as special as the first time I’d read them.

  The television droned in the background as I ate a fried egg sandwich with chocolate milk. I was only partially paying attention when I heard something about a bear attack. I stopped chewing and turned toward the TV, remembering my encounter with a black bear in Gatlinburg a little over a year ago.

  The banner at the bottom of the screen said the story was from out of Tennessee and I nodded. Makes sense!

  As I watched, they reported how a man from Florida was vacationing in the mountains with his family and had found himself between a mother bear and her cubs. The mother bear had swatted at him and bit his foot, only inflicting minor injuries but giving him a good scare. “The momma bear was only doing what came natural by protecting her cubs,” an official was saying. “While this is a rare event, it does underscore the risks associated with visiting the park. Visitors must remain vigilante and…”

  I’d never had kids, but I knew enough to know you never came between a mom and her children. I’d had to take more than one life in the line of duty, and the mothers of those I’d killed hated me with every violent fiber inside of them. And I got it. If the roles were reversed, I’d feel the same way.

  If the roles were reversed…

  I sat there for a long moment and thought about my life. Sure, I’d had girlfriends here and there—even some one-night flings—and I had some good friends, but I realized my entire existence revolved around my work. What would it be like to take some time off—to get away from work for a while? I glanced around at my empty kitchen. What would it be like to have a wife bustling about in her nightgown and a couple of screaming kids jumping on the sofa? Would I feel fulfilled or smothered? Could I even handle kids? They looked like a lot of work and all the parents I knew did nothing but worry all of the time. It hardly seemed worth it. I shrugged, went back to my breakfast. Some people were destined to live alone, and maybe I was one of them.

  After eating, I drove to the detective bureau in Payneville. The bureau was situated in the western wing of a large building that also housed the patrol division and the administrative office of the sheriff’s office. The portion of the building the detectives occupied contained two interview rooms, a large open area with eight individual cubicles, a spacious evidence room, and a large plush office for our captain.

  My desk was cluttered with at least a dozen new case files, but I almost didn’t notice them due to the large candy basket that towered over everything on my desktop. It contained mostly chocolate candy and included chocolate-covered cherries and Sno-Caps.

  I turned to Detective Rachael Bowler, whose desk was across from mine. “Who left this?”

  She shrugged, pointed to the small envelope clipped to the basket. “Whoever it is, they must really like you.”

  I tore open the envelope and read the card.

  London,

  Thanks for the shooting lesson last week. I really enjoyed it and learned so much. The more time I spend with you, the more impressed I become.

  Oh, and welcome back to the grind!

  Dawn

  “What are you grinning about?” Rachael’s voice snapped me out of the moment.

  I waved her off. “It’s nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Who’s it from?”

  I ignored her and took my seat, lost in thought. Dawn had soaked up every bit of information I threw at her, asking lots of questions and applying everything I taught her to the exercises and drills I put her through. We had remained at the firing range late into the night until, reluctantly—for me, at least—we had to part ways.

  I snatched my cell phone from my pocket and hurried outside. Standing in the shade of the overhang on the north side of the building, I d
ialed Dawn’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Dawn, I wanted to call and thank you for the candy basket. How’d you know I loved Sno-Caps?”

  “Lucky guess, I guess.” Her voice sounded distant and she seemed distracted. “And you’re very welcome. I appreciated the shooting tips.”

  “You sound busy. I can call back later, if you want.”

  “What are you doing right now?” she asked.

  “You mean other than talking with you on the phone? Nothing.”

  “Do you mind taking a drive out to Seasville? I’m at a death scene with a forty-something-year-old man, but there’s no obvious cause of death.”

  “Are you thinking foul play?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Dawn said. “His wife found him lying on the sofa in his cabana with his junk hanging out. There aren’t any obvious signs of drugs or alcohol abuse and he hasn’t vomited, so I doubt it’s an overdose. His wife said he didn’t have a heart condition or any other medical ailment that she knew about. There’s no trauma at all that I can see, but he’s definitely dead. It’s puzzling.”

  I loved a challenge and never turned down the opportunity to investigate a death case, especially since I considered homicide investigations the highest calling. It was my opinion that murder was the most egregious offense imaginable, and I strongly believed homicide detectives worked directly for God. Thus, who in their right mind would pass up the chance to work for God?

  “I’m on my way.” I hurried toward my truck. “Where am I going?”

  Dawn gave me the address and then paused before hanging up. “Oh, and one more thing, London.”

  “What is it?” I asked, cranking the engine on my truck and speeding out of the parking lot.

  “The victim is Wilton Michot—the manager of Olivier’s Car Dealership in Mathport.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Dawn was partially right about Wilton’s state of dress. His belt was unbuckled, pants unbuttoned, zipper pulled down, and his junk was exposed, but nothing was hanging out. He was lying on his back on the sofa and was clad in fancy jeans, a flannel shirt, and expensive cowboy boots. If I knew skin—and I really didn’t—it was alligator. I grunted, as I wondered what Shannon Reed would say about a hateful person who dared to walk around with his feet covered in the skin of a harmless deceased alligator.

  As though reading my mind, Dawn pointed to the boots and asked if I thought Shannon Reed had an alibi.

  “He’d better.” As I stared down at the man, I remembered seeing him through my scope during the hostage situation. I turned to Dawn. “Do you think this is connected to the hostage call in some way?”

  She shrugged. “At first, I thought he might’ve been traumatized by the incident and committed suicide, but I don’t see anything to indicate he killed himself.”

  “Do we know what set off Gaylord LeDoux?”

  “According to Beth LeDoux’s friends, she was having an affair with one of the salesmen at work and Gaylord found out about it. They said he was the jealous type and was forever coming around the dealership to check on Beth.”

  “Did you find out who was having an affair with her?”

  “They all suspected the salesman who was murdered because he was always coming into her cubicle area and whispering with her. And it wasn’t the first time Gaylord stopped to visit and caught her talking to him. According to one of the secretaries, Gaylord had caused a scene about a month ago when he found the two of them laughing together by the water cooler. He had to be escorted out.”

  “This all seems too coincidental,” I mumbled.

  Dawn walked around to the end of the sofa where Wilton’s head was positioned and pointed to the ground. A cowboy hat was resting on the marble floor. “It looks like he was in full character except for spurs and chap guards.”

  I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for Wilton, whose pale genitals were on display for all to see. “My grandpa used to say he wanted to die with his boots on, but I don’t think this was what he had in mind.”

  “If he was my husband and I loved him, I would’ve at least zipped him up before calling nine-one-one.” Dawn shook her head. “His wife must really hate him.”

  I glanced back at the hat, and then studied Wilton’s position more closely. The left side of his body was separated from the back of the sofa and created just enough space to fit a human leg. “You might be on to something.”

  “About what?” Dawn asked from the far side of the room near a bar, where she began digging in the trashcan. “About Shannon being the killer?”

  “No…about him being in full character. What if Wilton was playing some sort of sex game with someone and his wife found him like this? If she wasn’t the one in here having sex with him, I’m sure she suspected he was up to no good. If she thought he was in here cheating on her, then that would be incentive enough to embarrass him by just leaving him lying here exposed.”

  “True,” Dawn conceded, “but in his current state, I don’t think he cares.”

  I leaned close and noticed that lividity (pooling of the blood after death—affected by gravitational pull and manifested as purple discoloration) was present along the edges of Wilton’s hands and neck. It was consistent with the position of his body, so it was safe to say this was where he died. After pulling on a set of latex gloves, I pressed on one of the patches of lividity, but it didn’t blanch.

  “Lividity is fixed,” I said. “He’s been dead at least six hours.”

  Dawn looked at her watch. “That would be roughly three in the morning—right after the bars close.”

  I began moving around the large cabana with Dawn, helping her search it for evidence. The side of the room facing the swimming pool was made of solid glass and had two sets of sliding doors. I examined the locking mechanisms on both sets of doors. They were intact and operable. I then checked all of the windows in the building and found that they were all locked and free of damage. Next, I checked under all of the furniture but found nothing of evidentiary value.

  While I was doing that, Dawn disappeared through one of the sliding doors and returned about fifteen minutes later.

  “All of the garbage cans outside are also clean,” she said. “No pills, no empty beer bottles, no drug paraphernalia, no poison…nothing at all to suggest how he died.”

  “Did you get all of your measurements and photographs already?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I pointed to the body. “Want to turn him over and see if there are any surprises? Maybe there’s a knife in his back and the killer’s identification card is between the cushions.”

  “Let’s hope it’s that easy.”

  I grabbed Wilton’s arms and she grabbed his legs. Taking care not to flip him off of the sofa, we rolled him onto one side and examined the back of his shirt. There was nothing noteworthy. I carefully lifted the tail of his shirt and examined his back. The parts of his flesh that had made contact with the sofa were white, which was consistent with how the blood pools after death.

  There were no injuries or smoking guns under his body, so we allowed him to rock back in place.

  “Maybe he was having sex and his partner was so good she caused him to have a heart attack,” Dawn suggested.

  “That would mean we’re missing another body—a live one.” I rubbed my chin. “Can you think of a reason why a wife would lie about having sex with her husband if he died during the act?”

  “Do you think she was the one having sex with him?”

  “Let’s say it was her and they were into autoerotic asphyxiation. If she choked him too long and he accidentally died, then that could scare her into thinking she was going to jail for murder.”

  Dawn moved toward Wilton’s head and pushed his eyelids open. She shook her head. “No petechial hemorrhaging, so that’s out.”

  I sighed. “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

  “The coroner’s investigators are en route to pick up the body.”
Dawn pointed out the cabana window toward the main house, where a thin woman was sitting on a large swing watching us intently. “Why don’t we go see what Mrs. Michot has to say?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “He didn’t come in last night,” said a tearful Katina Michot as she pushed strands of long black hair out of her face. “But that wasn’t uncommon. He was always working late at the dealership, so I’d often go to bed before he came home. When I woke up this morning and realized he wasn’t in bed, well, that was when I started to grow concerned. I thought maybe he’d been in a wreck, but when I came out back I saw his truck in the driveway. I searched the house, calling his name as I went, but he didn’t answer.”

  “Yesterday was Sunday,” Dawn pointed out. “Is the dealership open on Sundays?”

  “No, but it doesn’t have to be open for Wilton to go to work. He’s the manager, so he’s in there every day, including Sundays and holidays. If it’s not a work day, he’s in there getting ready for the next one.”

  “Was it common for him to stay gone all night?” Dawn asked in a soft voice.

  Katina shook her head. “He’d often stay out late and would sometimes stumble in at three or four in the morning, but he’s never been gone all night. Well, unless he was out of town, but he didn’t go out of town last night.”

  “You said stumbled,” Dawn began. “Does that mean he’d come in drunk?”

  “Oh, yeah, lots of times. It was one of our regular fights. He’d spend more time in the bars and at work than he would at home.”

  Dawn nodded and then asked what made her go to the cabana.

  “It was the only place I hadn’t checked.” Katina rubbed her leaky nose with a tissue. “Sometimes, when we’re fighting, he’d go off into the cabana to sleep it off. I’ve found him passed out on that sofa many times, but I’ve never…I never thought… Oh, God!”

  Katina broke down in sobs and Dawn moved closer, putting an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry we have to do this so soon after. We just need to find out as much as you know, and we need to find out as soon as possible.”