by BJ Bourg
But I was now beginning to realize there was more to life than police work, sniping, and Louis L’Amour novels. It was different having someone around, that’s for sure, but in a great way. If I said I wouldn’t miss her, too, I’d be lying.
Dawn glanced up from her Jeep and caught my eyes on her. She blushed. “Were you just checking me out?”
I nodded sheepishly, like a dog that had just gotten caught peeing on the furniture.
She walked closer and wrapped her arms around me. At five-three, she was seven inches shorter than me and the top of her head rested just below my nose. I buried my nose in her brown hair and breathed in deeply, enjoying the familiar smell of her shampoo. I couldn’t name the scent, but I would recognize it anywhere.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I admitted. “These past few weeks have been awesome.”
“You seemed a little distracted at first, like you didn’t know how to relax, but you started to chill out over the last two weeks.”
“I felt like I was supposed to be training or something,” I said. “I’ve never gone a whole day without doing something work-related or sniper-related.”
She snuggled closer to me. “And I wish I wouldn’t have to go a whole day without doing something London-related.”
“I’m just glad you were able to bury the hatchet with your family. It’s important to stay close to them.”
“I know,” she mumbled, her lips moving against my neck as she spoke, causing a chill to reverberate up and down my back. “And I’d better get on the road so I can get there before dark.”
I nodded and kissed her for a long moment when she looked up at me. When our lips parted, she took a step toward her Jeep, then stopped. “If I’m still up there for Christmas, will you come visit?”
“Sure,” I said, noting inwardly that it was the first time I’d had plans for Christmas since my family perished in a car crash when I was a young boy. “I’ll be there. And I might even surprise you one weekend if I’m not working.”
“Great!” She ran back toward me, gave one final kiss, and then drove away.
I stood watching her Jeep until it disappeared in the distance, and then walked slowly to my truck. It was a little after eight o’clock in the morning and I had nothing else to do, so I headed for the firing range to get in some extra trigger time. I’d acquired an old junk car for training purposes and the wrecker service had hauled it to the range earlier in the week. I figured I’d take some shots through the windshield, maybe even from 1,000 yards.
I had just parked at the range and was grabbing my Pelican case from the back seat of my truck when my phone rang. Thinking it was Dawn, I quickly snatched it up and pushed it to my ear, not even checking the screen. I scowled when I heard Julie’s voice. Julie was a dispatcher who had worked in the radio room forever and was about as good as they got.
“What’s up, Jules?” I asked. “Is it sniper-related or an investigation?”
“The second one,” she said in a pleasant voice. “We need you over in Gracetown. A fisherman discovered a body tucked up under the Highway Twelve high rise.”
“Tucked up under the high rise?” I slid my rifle case back into my truck while holding the phone to my ear with a shoulder. “How do you mean?”
“The man said it looks like someone didn’t want this kid to be found, because he was shoved way up under the high rise, far from the water and the shoulder of Highway Eighty. I tried to get more information from him, but he said to hurry and disconnected the call. He said something about trying to keep his dog away from the body. I’ve called back a dozen times, but he won’t pick up again.”
I jumped in my truck and raced out of the parking lot, lights flashing and siren blaring. “Did you get a description of the dead person?”
“All I know is the victim’s a young black male and he’s been shot several times. We’ve got a deputy en route and he’s asking for backup since we don’t know much about the caller.”
“Tell him to proceed with caution—it might be a trap.”
“Sure thing.” She moved away from the phone and transmitted the radio traffic. When she returned, I told her I wasn’t far from the high rise.
“I’ll be there in ten,” I said.
“Agent Alef is close, too, and he’s also responding.”
I grunted my objection, but didn’t say anything to Julie. Dropping my phone into the center console, I swerved around a line of slow-moving cars and raced toward the scene, trying to get there before Buster Alef touched anything.
As I drove, I was thankful for the distraction, muttered to myself, “Nothing like a murder case to help occupy my thoughts and keep them off of Dawn.”
CHAPTER 3
I was second to arrive on the eastern shoulder of Highway Eighty under the Highway Twelve overpass. I parked behind a marked cruiser and was about to jump out when I saw the deputy walking casually with an elderly man in hip boots, jeans, and an old army jacket. They were heading back from the underside of the down-ramp and seemed to be talking to each other. An old yellow Labrador trailed behind them, his nose to the ground and his tongue hanging.
“It’s Code Four (all is well) out here, Headquarters,” I called over the radio before stepping out into the cool morning air.
Fall had finally sent summer packing and we were just starting to get temperatures south of eighty degrees for the first time in what seemed like forever. Of course, that wasn’t unusual for southeastern Louisiana. I’d worn shorts and T-shirts throughout more than one winter in my lifetime, and I knew there would be more to come.
“How’s it going?” I asked the deputy when we got to within hearing distance. She was young and fit. I’d never seen her before, but her name tag said she was Arlene Eiland. “I’m London Carter, one of the detectives here in—”
“I know who you are, sir.”
I winced. “Please don’t ever call me, ‘Sir’. It makes me feel old.”
“I used to think forty was old until I started creeping up on thirty,” she said. “Now I think fifty is quite young.” She grunted and rolled her green eyes. “My mother used to tell me this day would come, but I never believed her. Anyway, this gentleman”—she shot a thumb toward the old fisherman—“was fishing along the bayou side when his dog ran off.”
“Honey Bear,” the man interjected. “His name’s Honey Bear.”
“Right.” Arlene nodded. “Honey Bear ran off under the down-ramp and wouldn’t come out. When he went to investigate, he found a deceased male, apparently shot several times, lying in the damp mud.”
“What’d you do when you made the discovery?” I asked.
One of the man’s hip boots was sagging and he hitched it up. “What do you think I did? I got the hell out of there and called the law.”
“Did you see anyone else in the area? Either today or any other day you were out here?”
“I don’t usually fish this side of the bayou.” He jutted his chin toward Highway Three, which paralleled Highway Eighty to the west of Bayou Magnolia. “There was some sort of craft show or something over there and I couldn’t find a spot to park.”
“Did you touch the body or anything under the ramp?” I asked.
“Hell, no. I’ve got no business touching no dead body.”
I nodded, surveyed the area. The Highway Eighty side of Bayou Magnolia was uninhabited along this stretch. Fields of sugarcane land stretched for miles in either direction. Grinding season was in full swing and tractors and large harvesting equipment moved throughout the fields, working nonstop from sun up to sun down. Large oak trees hovered here and there, and they provided shaded spots for farmers to take their lunch breaks during the workdays. It would be a good place to start looking for witnesses.
Other than the farmers and their hands, there wasn’t much movement in the area. I turned to Arlene. “Did you get his contact information?”
“Yes, sir—I mean, yes, detective.” She held up her pocket notebook. “Got it right here.”
I nodded to the man. “You can go ahead and leave now. I’ll contact you if I need anything. Thanks for calling it in.”
“Come on, Honey Bear,” the man said, waving his goodbye. “Let’s get out of here before they ask any more questions.”
As Arlene led the way to the area where the body was located, I asked her how she knew me.
“I don’t know you, like personally, but I heard about the hostage rescue shot you took at that dealership.” She whistled. “My dad read the story in the paper and said it was a hell of a shot. He was a sniper in the military, so he knows about rifle shooting. He told me it takes special training to be able to shoot accurately through glass.”
“Sniper, eh?” I glanced sideways at her. “Has he ever taught you anything?”
She only shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
We made our way up a slight incline and then ducked under the bridge. I could feel the concrete above us vibrate as vehicles zipped by along the highway. I pointed upward. “Has that crack always been there?”
Arlene gave a little start, but then relaxed when she looked up and saw the smooth concrete. “Are you joking with me?”
“Maybe a little.” I pointed toward the figure that lay on his back several yards away. Indeed, it appeared to have been “tucked up under” the bridge. “Is that our victim?”
“Yeah, it’s my first.”
“I can promise you this…it won’t be your last.” I scanned the soft dirt in front of us. There were two sets of shoe impressions and one set of paw prints leading to and from the body.
“This set of tracks is the old man’s boots.” Arlene pointed to one set of impressions. “I checked out the soles to make sure. And these are mine.”
“Did you notice any evidence as you approached the body?”
“No, sir. I checked before each step, but didn’t see anything of evidentiary value.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“Only to check his pulse. There was none and his neck was cold.”
There were no other obvious tracks leading to the body. I pointed to Arlene’s gun belt. “Can I borrow your flashlight?”
She nodded and handed it to me. Once I’d flicked it on, I carefully examined the surrounding soil. I grunted. “Well, this ain’t good.”
“What’s that?”
“You see that patch of dirt extending from the body south to the thick grass over there?” I pointed from the body to where the high rise ended, following a barely discernible path with my finger.
She nodded, a curious expression on her face.
“Someone was up here and they rubbed away their shoe impressions.” I aimed the beam of light toward the victim’s face and sighed. “Damn, kid…someone was pissed at you.”
CHAPTER 4
Once I’d led the medics to and from the body—the victim was in full rigor (rigor mortis is the stiffening of the muscles after death), so there wasn’t much for them to do—I walked to my truck and grabbed my crime scene box. I saw Buster Alef standing near the back of his white Camaro with the blacked-out windows that his division had seized from a low-level drug dealer. Dressed in a shirt and jeans several sizes too small for him—that he probably purchased in the boys’ section of the clothing store—he was making an exaggerated show of talking on the phone. I couldn’t make out the print pattern on his shirt, but it was some kind of cartoon character. I grunted. He definitely bought it in the kids’ section.
When Buster saw me, he smiled and waved, as though he were greeting an old friend. While we’d worked together on the tactical team for many years, we were far from friends.
I didn’t smile back. Instead, I started to return to where Arlene was guarding the scene, but then stopped. I didn’t want him showing up near the body, because his name would end up in the investigative report, and I didn’t want it to. I put my box on the shoulder of the road near my truck and approached him.
“We’re good here,” I said when he got off the phone. “We don’t need any more help.”
His eyes squinted a little and his chest subtly bowed out. “Are you asking me to leave?”
“No, I’m telling you to leave. I heard about the internal affairs investigation and I don’t want you associated with this case in any way.”
His mouth dropped open. “What…how…excuse me?”
“Don’t play ignorant, Buster. You’re under investigation and I want you as far away from my cases as possible.”
“That’s all bullshit and you know it!” His hands balled up into fists and the muscles in his jaw bulged. “That bastard is lying. He’s just pissed off because his girlfriend’s in love with me.”
He was referring to the entry team member who’d suddenly recalled a discrepancy in a use of force report Buster had filed six months back. They had done a raid on a drug house on the east side of Gracetown and things went south in a hurry, ending in the shooting deaths of the suspect, his wife, and their infant child, who was sleeping in bed between them. Buster claimed in his report that the suspect fired a shot from a .44 magnum revolver as soon as he made entry into the suspect’s bedroom and his team had opened fire in self-defense.
“I really don’t give a shit what’s going on between you, him, and his girlfriend,” I said. “I’m not going to let you and your problems screw up this case.”
“Damn it, London, you can’t treat me like this! I’m innocent until proven guilty—you of all people should know that—and the investigation cleared me!”
He was right about that last part. The detectives working the case concluded that the suspect did fire one shot from a revolver, just as Buster had asserted, and it was consistent with the statements of the other entry team members, who said they were forced to return fire to neutralize the threat. The file had been sent up to the DA’s office for review and the officers were cleared by a grand jury—for a few months, at least.
One of the entry team members had recently come forward and said Buster fired the first shot accidentally when he stumbled and fell into the furniture, and that was when the other operators opened fire on the suspect. It was only then that the suspect lifted his revolver in defense of his wife and baby, who were sleeping beside him in the bed. He got one shot off before he was mowed down. Now, the case was being reopened and there was talk of suspensions and possible indictments of all the officers involved.
“You need to leave, Buster.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m still commissioned and you’re not my supervisor. Hell, I was at SWAT training yesterday and the sheriff stopped by and he didn’t say anything about decommissioning me. If he doesn’t have a problem with me, then who the hell are you to care?” He gritted his teeth to appear menacing and I thought he might be stupid enough to take a swing at me, but I quickly realized he was reflecting back on the time I’d knocked him on his ass for groping one of the dispatchers in my presence.
I stepped closer to him and watched in amusement as he visibly deflated. “Get the hell out of here before I drag your ass down the road,” I said, my voice even and matter-of-fact.
He hesitated, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “Come on, London…how long have you known me? You know I’m on the up and up. I’m as straight as they come.”
“It’s not about that.” I shook my head. “I can’t afford to have someone who’s under investigation for malfeasance in office—and possibly murder—associated with this case. Hell, I’m surprised you’re not on desk duty or at home.”
Buster scowled. “I got word late yesterday that I’m being reassigned to the jail pending the results of the investigation.”
“That might be a good place for you.” I pointed toward his car. “Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”
“Yeah, sure.” He turned and walked away, muttering, “You self-righteous prick.”
“What’d you say?” I challenged.
“Good luck,” he quickly called over his shoulder. “I said good luck with the case.”
&n
bsp; As he was driving away, an unmarked detective car pulled up and parked behind my truck. I didn’t recognize who it was until she jumped out and rushed over to me. “I got dressed and drove here as soon as I could. Sorry if I’m late.”
“You’re just in time.” I studied her new hair style. Last I’d seen Detective Rachael Bowler, her hair was long and light blonde. Now, it was short—at least ten inches shorter than before—and dark brown. “Are you wanted?”
She laughed. “I figured short, dark hair would serve me better as a sniper than long and light blonde would.”
“I guess you’re right.” Out of a dozen candidates who’d applied for the vacant positions on the team, I’d only selected two new snipers—Rachael and Andrew Hacker.
“You’re always asking for new snipers,” Sheriff Corey Chiasson had complained last week when I’d submitted their names, “but no one’s ever good enough for your team.”
“Rachael and Andrew are,” I’d countered, and then reminded him of his promise to allow me to run the team as I saw fit.
“I know, I know,” he’d said before changing the subject and asking for my thoughts on the Buster Alef situation. To me, it was a no-brainer. If it was proven that Buster had falsified the report and fired the first shot, he should go to prison.
I picked up my box and called over my shoulder to Rachael, “It’ll definitely be easier to wash all the mud out of short hair, so that’s a plus.”
Rachael caught up to me and matched my stride, shooting a thumb over her shoulder. “What the hell was Buster doing here? I thought he was on suspension.”
I told her about my conversation with the sheriff last week. “The sheriff didn’t say what he’d do, but Buster said he’s being reassigned to the jail.”
“That’ll be a good place for him—as long as they keep him away from the female inmates.”
Having heard about Buster’s history with women, I knew she was right.
“I appreciate you coming out to help,” I said as we neared the incline that led to the body. “It looks like we’re going to have our work cut out for us.”
