by BJ Bourg
Shaking my head, I pushed through the group and waved at the alligator hunters as I walked by. One of them gestured toward the protestors. “Ain’t you gonna make them get the hell out of here?”
“They’re not hurting anyone.” I continued to the south end of the pier where I found a water patrol deputy named Norm Brady launching the boat that would take us to the crime scene. He was leaning out of the driver’s window of his white F-250 pickup truck as he guided a large boat trailer down the steep ramp. I could tell he’d made that maneuver more than a few times. Atop the trailer was a 24-foot-long Boston Whaler Enforcer sporting the word Sheriff in bright bold letters along the side of the hull, just above the water line.
Once the boat’s hull was fully submerged in the water, Norm threw the gearshift in park and dropped from the truck, his large belly jiggling when his feet hit the ground. He took a labored breath and hitched up his gun belt. “How the hell are you, London?”
“I’m well.”
He lifted a thick, hairy arm and pointed toward the protestors. “They’ve been here since yesterday, harassing every hunter that shows up with a catch.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The group members were still chanting and waving signs, but they weren’t getting in the way of the hunters. “They seem harmless enough.”
Norm grunted and wiped a stream of sweat from his forehead. “Don’t let them fool you. Their ginger-headed leader had to be arrested last year for cutting the fuel lines on a half dozen boats. That man is trouble waiting to happen. He disappears after alligator season ends and shows back up the following year for opening day. Been doing it for the past three years.”
I turned back to Norm and watched as he finished launching the boat. He handed me the rope and I held onto it while he parked his truck. Once he returned to where I stood along the edge of the concrete pier, I deftly jumped into the boat and lowered my bags to the floor. He boarded the vessel behind me and fired up the twin engines. Before pulling away, he handed me a life vest. I scowled, but he insisted.
“We have to be an example out here on the water,” he explained. “If some of these kids see us riding around with no vests, they’ll think it’d be okay for them to do it, too.”
Without saying a word, I snapped the vest in place and took my seat at the front of the boat, settling in for the long ride.
The breeze was cool and the sun was struggling to find an opening in the cloudy sky, and that kept the temperature from climbing. The boat would occasionally hit a rough wave and water would shoot into the air and rain down on us. I tasted salt on my lips and asked Norm about it.
“The Gulf of Mexico has been pushing salt into this area for decades and the fresh water is slowly retreating northward up the bayou.” He shook his head. “It’s not the best scenario, but local shrimpers love it because they can catch shrimp right out their back doors.”
I wiped the water from my face and my hand felt sticky. I rubbed it idly on my coveralls while wondering what I’d find when we reached Dawn.
A few minutes later, Norm explained that we were nearing the southernmost end of Bayou Magnolia. “There’s a fork up ahead where the bayou intersects with Pelican Pass,” he said. “That’s where we’re heading.”
Although I’d worked in Magnolia my entire career and had spent a lot of time in the marsh as a kid, I’d rarely been called out this far south. I mentioned it to Norm.
“It’s rare that any law enforcement services are needed this far south.” Norm pursed his lips in thought. “Come to think of it, other than medical emergencies and accidents, I can’t remember ever being called out here. I’m sure these people would rather we stay away and leave them to their business.”
I wondered about the reason. Could it be because the tiny population, which consisted mainly of hunters and fishermen, meant tinier problems? Or did these people take matters into their own hands and solve their problems via their own sense of law and order? Whatever the case, I didn’t mind not frequenting the area. I loved feeling the solid ground under my feet.
A few minutes later we reached the fork Norm described and he steered the boat to the left, entering the narrow canal. He shot a thumb over his shoulder to where Bayou Magnolia continued flowing south. “The bayou ends a few miles farther down. It spills into the lake at a place called the Cut.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, but the tall marsh grass and trees had already obstructed my view of the bayou. “Is it Lake Bentley?”
“No…Devil’s Lake. Lake Bentley’s west of here.” Norm grunted. “Devil’s Lake is where all the kids go to cut up. Some are into water skiing, others into hydro sliding, but it’s mostly a bunch of horny boys trying to show off and get lucky with the girls.”
I couldn’t blame them, but I didn’t say so. Norm seemed to be annoyed by their actions, and it made me wonder how he had spent his time as a young boy.
We hadn’t gone but a few hundred yards down Pelican Pass when he said we were almost at the scene. “It’s about a quarter mile farther.”
I suddenly grew alert and scanned both banks of the pass, looking for any signs of a shooter. I didn’t know what we were dealing with and I didn’t like being out in the middle of the canal where we were exposed, so I pointed to the southern bank where a giant oak tree hung low over the water. “Get under those branches. We’ll hump it the rest of the way. We’re too exposed in the middle of the canal.”
“Ben flew over the entire area earlier and cleared it,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”
Ben Baxter was the department’s helicopter pilot. He stood just about six feet tall and was bald with a pot belly. He was a secretive man and didn’t talk much. None of us knew exactly how old he was or if he had a family or where he’d come from before landing his job at the sheriff’s office, but we all trusted him with our lives. That man could land a helicopter in a coffee can during a CAT 5 hurricane. While he was an excellent pilot, he was no sniper.
“A good sniper can hide from a helicopter,” I explained to Norm, removing my life vest and digging my ghillie suit from the rucksack. I quickly slipped into it and pulled the zipper up to my neck.
“But Dawn and all made it just fine when they came through here.” Norm wiped sweat from his brow and scowled. “Come on, London, it’s just down the pass. Maybe five minutes by boat. There’s no need to walk.”
I knew he didn’t relish a long walk through the swamps, but I didn’t care about what he wanted—I cared about staying alive. I pointed to one of the larger branches jutting out from the oak tree. “Let me out there and then you can go on alone if you want to risk your brain stem.”
Norm gulped and quickly reduced speed. Without saying another word, he maneuvered the boat into the shadows of the thick branches. As he did so, I quickly unzipped my drag bag and pulled out my rifle, moving my thumb over the safety switch. If we took on gunfire, I wanted that rifle in my fists, not in its case.
CHAPTER 5
Once the boat was tied to the trunk of the tree and we were on dry land, Norm glanced around nervously. “You think the killer’s out there in the trees right now? Gunning for us?”
I shrugged as I shut off the power on my phone. “He’s out there somewhere.”
“Um…I think I’ll just stay here with the boat,” he said. “You know, just to make sure no one steals it. Besides, I don’t have a ghillie suit.”
I nodded my understanding and headed east, carefully picking my way along the bank of Pelican Pass. The ground was soft for the most part, but cypress knees and gnarly roots littered the forest floor. I had to feel my way with my boots while keeping my head on a swivel. The killer could still be out there, lying in wait for his next victim. I penetrated every shadow and every clump of vegetation with my eyes. My movements were slow and methodical, and I didn’t make a sound. I kept my rifle poised for action as I picked my way across the marshland, taking one painstaking step at a time. It didn’t take long for me to come within earshot of Dawn and the other of
ficers who were with her. I followed the sound of their voices and stopped when I could see movement through the trees. The water patrol deputies were casually walking around the area while Dawn was busy processing the scene.
I set up beside a tree and flipped open my scope caps and shouldered my rifle. Taking my time, I panned the entire area surrounding the crime scene and searched for the shooter. I didn’t look for a silhouette of a human, because a good sniper will break up his figure in order not to be detected by the human eye. I was looking for the tiniest inconsistency in the color or shape of vegetation, the slightest movement that went against the flow of the morning breeze, and any other human indicator that would clue me into the shooter’s position.
When I was satisfied the area was clear, I straightened and slung my rifle over my shoulder. The deputies had no idea I was there. Lucky for them, it was me and not the murderer. Unlucky for Dawn, they were of no use to her. Instead of being on high alert, I could hear them joking and fooling around, as though they were in a donut shop on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Moving smoothly, I covered the seventy or so yards to where two of the deputies were sitting on a downed tree talking about the Saints’ new season. I got to within fifteen feet of the crime scene tape when one of them noticed me and jumped to his feet, his hand inches from his pistol. “What the—?”
It was clear he had never seen a ghillie suit before. By the ashen look on his face, he had suddenly become a believer in Man Creature and the Swamp Monster—and he thought I was there to kill him.
I lifted my rifle and pulled back my hood. When he recognized my face, he relaxed and shook his head. “Damn, London, you scared the shit out of me.”
Dawn was squatting beside a lifeless body, busy writing notes and recording measurements. She looked up and I smiled at her as I unzipped my ghillie suit and let it slip from my shoulders. I rested my rifle against a nearby cypress tree and ducked under the tape.
“How are you?” I asked.
She shoved a tuft of brown hair behind her ear and grunted. “I’m thirty-two, single, and covered in swamp shit. How the hell do you think I am?”
I knew she wasn’t single for lack of prospects, because legend had it she’d been hit on by every male cop in the southern states—and even some female officers—but she had turned them all down. It was rumored she only wanted what she couldn’t have—the perfect man, and he didn’t exist.
“I know what you mean.” I jerked my radio off my belt, called for Norm to bring the boat downstream to where the other water patrol deputies had tied up their boats. I then stepped closer to the body.
Dawn’s brown eyes glistened with suspicion as she watched me get closer to her. “What parts?” she asked.
“Parts?”
“You said you know what I mean—about what parts?”
I glanced down at my muddy coveralls. “All of it. I’m single, thirty-two, and covered in swamp shit.”
“I thought you were seeing that girl…” She snapped her fingers. “What’s her name again?”
I didn’t say a word, choosing instead to study the dead guy. He wasn’t very tall, but he was a heavy kid. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. His head had been shaved, but the hair was coming back and it was the same length as his two-day’s growth of facial hair. He wore a white apron that was covered in blood, but I was guessing it wasn’t his own because it wasn’t fresh enough.
“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Dawn said. “Sally Piatkowski. Aren’t you dating Sally?”
“She’s old news,” I mumbled, leaning closer to the victim’s face. What had once been a pair of chubby cheeks was now a sunken mess of broken flesh and bone. His eyes were wide, as though he couldn’t believe what had happened to him. I looked around the scene, noting a dead alligator on the ground near the body. I pointed to the gator. “Did you question him? He might’ve seen something.”
“I did,” Dawn said, playing along, “but he sat tight-lipped and stone-faced throughout the interrogation.”
I grinned. I liked her. “How’d it get here?”
“The Simoneaux brothers dragged it from the lake,” she explained. “They stole it from another hunter’s line.”
I looked around the small clearing. “Where are the brothers of the dead guy?”
“Due north of here, on the edge of Pelican Pass.” Dawn went on to explain how they had found the brothers crouched down in their boat, shivering in fright, and the oldest had wet his pants. They had found three other dead alligators on the bank nearby and both brothers were armed—one with a rifle and the other a revolver. “But their guns were empty.”
“Empty? Did they return fire?”
Dawn nodded and pointed out a dozen evidence cones strewn about the scene. “The middle brother, Orville Simoneaux, reloaded his revolver three times and returned fire from that location.” She pointed to the base of a large cypress tree at the edge of the small clearing. “The oldest brother, Quentin, was shooting a twenty-two rifle. We found seventeen spent casings and about a dozen live rounds he dropped as he was running back to their boat.”
“Did you find the bullet that killed him?” I asked.
“I searched for scarring on all the nearby trees, but couldn’t find any. I guess it’s possible the bullet hit a crack in the bark, which would make it impossible to detect.”
“Are you done processing the scene?”
When she nodded, I retrieved my rifle from where it was leaning against the tree. “What’s the distance between the bottom of the victim’s feet and his entrance wound?” I asked.
Dawn flipped through her notes until she found the measurement and called out, “Fifty-eight inches.”
I then asked if she could place the tip of the measuring tape on the ground where the victim had been standing and extend it upward fifty-eight inches. When she had done what I asked, I sidled up close to her and leaned my rifle against the measuring tape.
As I peered through my scope, trying to backtrack the bullet to the sniper’s location, I couldn’t help but notice the sweet aroma of Dawn’s perfume. I caught it intermittently, with each blow of the gentle breeze. Pushing the distraction from my head, I focused on the task at hand.
The forest was thick with trees, making it difficult to locate a lane of more than forty yards through which the bullet could’ve passed. I was about to give up and call the witnesses liars when I detected a narrow opening in the distance that led to an even longer lane beyond it. I steadied my rifle and focused like a laser on a fork in the trees about three hundred yards away. The perfect spot!
Noticing a difference in my demeanor, Dawn asked if I saw something.
“I’ve got a fix on his location,” I said, scanning the area inch by inch. He could’ve displaced after the first shot and set up for a second, which would mean we were all in danger. When I was comfortable he wasn’t operating within that alleyway any longer, I lowered my rifle and held it in my left hand. I then pointed toward the sniper’s hide with my right index finger and lined my shoulder up with the spot Norris was standing when he got killed. “Dawn, find the first tree behind me that lines up with my arm.”
Not taking my eye off of my index finger, I waited and listened as Dawn’s boots crunched through the forest behind me. She would move for a bit and then her boots would stop for a second or two, and then she would move again. After about five minutes, I heard her give a triumphant yell.
Keeping my right arm extended in the direction of the sniper’s hide, I slowly turned my head to see where she’d found the bullet. All three points—the sniper’s hide, Norris’ location, and the bullet—were collinear.
I walked to the tree, which was less than ten feet away, and looked where Dawn pointed. A pimple of a hole was present in the bark, but it was fresh. After she photographed the location and measured it, I pulled my knife out and began digging into the bark around the hole, slowly chipping away one layer at a time. After peeling off a few layers, I saw something shiny sticking out of
the center of the hole. Although it was still embedded, I could tell that the copper base of the projectile was intact and the striations were clearly defined. I frowned. It was great to find the bullet, but unless we recovered a rifle, it would be useless for ballistics comparisons.
“You have an evidence bag?” I asked.
Without saying a word, Dawn handed me a white evidence envelope. I held it against the tree, just under the bullet, and kept digging. As I dug, a few shards of copper jacketing broke free from the tree and fell into the envelope, followed moments later by the mushroomed bullet. I handed the envelope to Dawn.
“Too bad we don’t have a rifle to compare it against,” she said.
“Hopefully we’ll get lucky and the killer dropped his rifle.”
“Yeah, along with a confession and his driver’s license.” She studied the contents of the envelope. “Can you tell what caliber of bullet it is?”
“It’s definitely from the thirty-caliber family. My guess would be a three-o-eight, but I can’t be positive. We’ll know more if the bastard left a casing behind.” I shouldered my drag bag and cradled my rifle in the crook of my arm. “Why don’t you get yourself and your deputies out of here and tell Norm to wait for me by Pelican Pass. I’ll check out the sniper’s hide, and then Norm and I will meet you back at the boat launch.”
Dawn turned and barked orders to the three water patrol deputies who were milling around outside the crime scene tape, telling them to transport the victim’s body to the boat landing and to bring the two brothers to the Seasville Substation. “Oh,” she said, “and bring the alligators over to the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries for disposal.”
She then turned back to me and, after adjusting her crime scene backpack on her shoulders, nodded. “I’m ready.”
I stared down at her, guessing she couldn’t be more than three inches above the five-foot mark and wondering why I hadn’t realized that before. It must’ve been her confidence that made her seem taller. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in her dark eyes, and I knew better than to argue. “Okay, but we’ll have to mess you up a little before we go.”
