by BJ Bourg
“The DA let him out because of me. If he killed Uma’s son…” He shook his head. “I just don’t know if I could live with myself if I were the one responsible for this. Uma’s one of ours, you know? Despite what you might think of me, I’d die for her and any of my other law enforcement brothers and sisters.” He grunted. “I’d even die for your sorry ass. I’d just hate myself if I was the reason for her pain.”
I sat there, nodding my head slowly, not sure what to make of his loyalty speech and slightly amused at the irony of being called a “sorry ass” by a cop who was under a dark cloud of investigation. Finally, I stood to leave, but stopped to look down at Buster. “Don’t mess with Zach while he’s in here—for Uma’s sake. I don’t need you screwing up this case.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He shook his head soberly. “I was mad at the time, but I’m real glad you threw me off of that scene. Don’t get me wrong, I’m innocent and I’m going to be exonerated, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I was the cause of something going wrong with Uma’s case. Shit, I might have already gone and screwed up royally by getting Zach released on those charges.”
I detested dirty cops. If the allegations were true, Buster had made a mistake, but that alone didn’t make him dirty. Making an error in judgment at a critical time during a highly stressful situation only made him human. In my mind, the cover up—if it was true—is what made him dirty. But despite what I thought of him, I found myself feeling bad for him. If Zach turned out to be our killer, it would devastate Buster. Coupled with the investigation, it might be enough to send him over the edge.
I turned and reached for the door handle, but he called out to me.
“London, does Uma know Zach might be the killer?”
I nodded.
“Does she know I was the one who let him out of jail?”
“Not yet, but she will.” I sighed, thinking back to the campaign donations Zachariah Bailey had given Sheriff Chiasson. “Everyone’s going to know,” I said, “and it won’t look good for any of us.”
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday, November 20
Like any sane person, Zach Bailey didn’t like being in jail, even one as nice as the Magnolia Parish Detention Center. While he’d been locked up more than his share of times, it never got any easier. For him, going to the bathroom in public was the worst thing about jail. He was a private person and preferred to do his business in the solitude of a bathroom with four strong walls. He glanced at the silver latrine in the corner of the cell. It was ominous and heartless. It sat there and mocked him like his classmates would when he was forced to change in front of everyone for school sports. He had been the only eighth grader in his class who wore underwear with cartoon characters embroidered on them, and his teammates brutalized him for it. An older boy went so far as to reach under the bathroom stall one day when he was having a bowel movement after lunch and yank his underwear and pants right off of his feet. He had fallen off the toilet and someone had taken a picture of his naked self and circulated it around the school. Unable to walk outside because he didn’t have his pants or underwear, he had remained hidden in the stall—crying and ashamed—until an assistant principal found him and called his parents.
Zach never quite shook the feeling of embarrassment from that day all of those years ago, and it caused great anxiety when he had to disrobe in front of others. He’d even had problems undressing in front of the few girlfriends he’d managed to attract, and the stress had caused more than one of them to press the eject button on their relationship.
He could hear movement from other jail cells down the hall, but none of his three cellmates had stirred in their bunks yet. Gray light filtered in through the square window high above their cell and he knew it would be daylight soon and everyone would be awake. Taking great care not to make any noise, he slipped from his bunk and padded toward the latrine in his bare feet. The concrete floor was cold and sticky, making him wish he’d put on the parish-issued slippers. After taking a careful look around to make sure no one was looking, he quickly used the bathroom and then hurried back to his bunk, slipped under the covers.
“You looked like a shit robber,” a voice boomed from the bunk above him, causing him to nearly wet his bed. “Are you sneaking around the head stealing shit?”
Zach closed his eyes, hoping the man would think he was asleep.
“What’d you do?” the man continued. “Plant a bomb in there or something?”
Zach didn’t say a word. He pulled the pillow over his head and pretended he was home in his own bed and his mom was about to call him to breakfast. When he still didn’t answer, the man grunted and shuffled in his bed, causing the springs to squeak and the entire bunk to shake. Zach hadn’t seen the man when the jailor locked him in the cell last night, but the mattress of the top bunk sagged like a plastic bag filled with water, and he figured the man had to be heavy.
“God, I hope he’s not a rapist or a killer,” Zach thought, shutting his eyes and trying desperately to fall back asleep. With any luck, his dad would be by soon to bond him out and he could go back to living life like a free man—
“Hey, kid, what the hell are you in here for?” asked a voice from across the room. “You some kind of sex predator or something? You look like a little pervert.”
Thinking it best not to piss anyone off by ignoring them anymore, he slowly turned around in his bed and stared at the man who was talking. The man was old and wiry and had a long gray beard that matched the color of his long hair.
“No, sir,” Zach said, remembering how most prisoners felt about rapists and child predators. “I’m no pervert. In fact, I hate sex predators.”
“Then you and your bunkmate are going to get along just fine.” The old man laughed. “What do you think about that, Robichaux? This kid says he hates sex predators. Care to tell him why you’re in here?”
Zach gulped and felt his mouth go instantly dry. The last time he had spent the night in jail he’d gotten his ass beat so bad he was in the hospital for three days. He didn’t want to go through that hell again. His dad threatened to sue the jail, but he refused to rat on the prisoners who beat him. It’s not because he didn’t want them to be punished—he did—but he knew he might be visiting this place again and he didn’t want to be labeled a rat. Hell, the only reason he had agreed to go undercover for Agent Buster Alef was to avoid coming back here, and then only after Alef assured him no one would ever find out he was a rat. While not many people truly got murdered in jail, there was a lot of ass-whipping going on, and he didn’t want his whipped anymore.
“Sir, I’m real sorry,” Zach said to the underside of the top mattress, his voice quivering. “I didn’t mean it.”
The bunk shook violently and two tree-trunks-for-legs dropped over the side, followed closely by a large frame. When the man named Robichaux’s feet landed on the floor, he turned and looked down at Zach. His face was twisted into a sneer and his hands were balled into fists. After a few tense seconds, Robichaux burst into laughter, slapping the top bunk and turning toward the old man. “I can’t do it with a straight face.”
The old man laughed, too, and they told Zach they were messing with him.
Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Zach rolled to a seated position. “I thought I was going to get my ass kicked again,” he said, “and I wasn’t looking forward to it.”
Robichaux sat beside him on the lower bunk. “Not unless you’re a sex predator, because we hate those.”
“No, sir, I’m in here for drugs.”
“I hate drug dealers, too,” Robichaux said, the skin around his eyes tightening. “My grandma died of an overdose before my mom was born. I swear, if I ever get my hands on that drug dealer, I’ll snap him in two. It wasn’t you, was it?”
Zach shook his head, panic starting to set in.
Robichaux burst out laughing. “I got him again, Old Timer.”
The old man laughed, and pointed out to Zach that if Robichaux�
��s grandmother would’ve overdosed before his mom was born, he wouldn’t be here.
Rubbing his chest, Zach nodded and let out a nervous laugh.
“Seriously, kid, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Robichaux said. “All the hard asses are kept separate from us small timers. Besides, we’ll keep an eye on you while we’re here.”
“Shit, I ain’t going nowhere,” Old Timer said. “I borrowed a forklift from the wrong company.”
“Borrowed, my ass.” Robichaux shot his thumb at the old man. “He got drunk, stole a forklift from the shipyard, and then drove it through his neighbor’s garage.”
“The sum-bitch poisoned my dog.” Old Timer huffed. “He’s lucky I didn’t drive it through his bedroom while he and his ugly wife were sleeping.”
Zach looked at the fourth bunk, where a figure had remained lifeless under the blankets. In a low voice, he asked, “What’s with him?”
“High school kid.” Robichaux frowned. “He woke up yesterday from a drunken night of partying to learn he’d crashed into a large oak tree and killed his best friend. He hasn’t moved much since then.”
“He might be dead,” Old Timer said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He hadn’t even dropped down to take a piss or eat.”
“Why are you in here?” Zach asked Robichaux.
The large man sighed heavily. “It’s hard enough when your little girl gets a boyfriend, but when that boyfriend hits her…”
When he didn’t continue, Old Timer said, “Robichaux kicked the kid’s door down and beat the shit out of him. Cops say it would’ve been a misdemeanor if he would’ve waited for the kid to come outside, but since he kicked the door down, he got busted with a felony.”
“Damn, that’s rough.” Zach began to relax, grateful that he was sharing a cell with some cool fellows. He glanced around as light flooded through the windows of the cells. “Do they still let us walk around outside before breakfast?”
“Yeah, we get three breaks. Once before breakfast, once after lunch, and once before dinner.” Robichaux flexed his ham-sized bicep. “It’s when I do my weight-lifting. You can spot me if you want. Old Timer here is about as useless as tits on a boar’s back when it comes to weight-lifting.”
“Sure,” Zach said, “I’ll spot you.”
They made small talk until the guards came around and escorted them to the outdoor recreational area for their morning break. Robichaux led the way to a weight-lifting bench that was already set up for bench presses. As they walked, Zach stared out across the two rows of cyclone fencing that surrounded them. It was the only thing that separated them from the outside world—well, that and the giant German shepherds that patrolled the area between the two fences, the rolls of razor wire on top, and the officer holding some kind of sniper rifle in the guard tower. He could see the highway and trees in the distance; could smell the fresh air of freedom. He longed to be out of there and back home. Why did he always mess up and get himself in trouble? Shit, this time—
“Hey, kid, are you going to spot me or not?”
Robichaux’s voice snapped Zach from his thoughts and he nodded. He moved to one side of the weight bar and leaned over to get his hands ready in case he’d have to help get the weights off of Robichaux.
“Not there,” Robichaux said. “You have to stand behind me. And you don’t have to lean over me. Just be ready in case I need you.”
“How much weight is this anyway?” Zach repositioned himself and surveyed the large plates on the bar. They were huge. “I doubt I can even pick this up.”
“You won’t have to pick it up. If I need you, it’ll only be to give a finger up. Now, step back.” Taking a deep breath, Robichaux gripped the bar and lifted it from the stand, pausing for a second before lowering it slowly to his chest. As soon as the bar touched his chest, he groaned loudly and exhaled forcefully as he pressed the weight upward. He paused again and said, “This is three hundred and seventy-five pounds of genuine, American-made—”
Robichaux’s voice suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and his arms went lax, allowing the bar with all the weight to drop violently downward, landing across his throat and smashing through to the bench. Almost immediately, and off in the distance, Zach heard the echo of a gunshot. Before the echo of that shot died away, something splattered into Robichaux’s belly and a second shot was heard from afar, after which all hell broke loose. Prisoners were screaming and running for cover and the guard on the tower started firing his rifle in the direction from which the shot had come. It sounded like automatic rifle fire to Zach and he knew he should run, but he was fixated on the image of Robichaux lying there with his head nearly decapitated by the bar. Robichaux’s eyes were bulging and blood and brain-looking stuff leaked from a hole in the top of his head.
As Zach watched, the bar teetered on the bench for a second. It then began rolling backward—slowly at first—and the weight of it crushed more of Robichaux’s neck. Realizing he needed to do something, Zach reached for the bar to stop it from inflicting more damage, but he screamed and jumped out of the way as it picked up momentum and fell off the end of the bench, stretching Robichaux’s neck to the ripping point.
Confused and in shock from what had just occurred, Zach sank to his knees, his eyes locked on Robichaux’s severely damaged neck and head, trying to process what he was looking at. Robichaux’s neck had been smashed and stretched until it ripped from his body, but that wasn’t what killed the man. A bullet had left the free world and entered the prison yard to strike Robichaux in the head, just below his cheek.
As Zach stared at what was left of Robichaux, the chaos surrounding him turned to a low drone and he felt his eyes sliding shut and his own body going limp.
CHAPTER 27
Magnolia Parish Detention Center
“In all my years of doing this,” said a somber Sheriff Chiasson, “I’ve never heard of a prisoner being killed sniper-style from the outside world.”
I nodded my agreement and pulled out my radio. “Sierra One to Sierra Two, how’s it looking?”
“Three to One,” answered Ray instead, “everything looks clear. The shooter must’ve left the area.”
“Ten-four,” I radioed. “Keep your eyes peeled. We’re heading out there now.”
After receiving a call about the shooting earlier in the morning, I had immediately dispatched Jerry and Ray to the guard tower to survey the area for hostiles. They had relieved the corrections officer who was still up there scanning the distant horizon, and I had debriefed him while Jerry and Ray used the optics atop their rifles to search for the killer.
The corrections officer was sure the killing shots had come from the trees in the distance, and he had fired—or, as we would call it, “wasted”—close to a hundred rounds in that direction. “If he’s out there, I definitely got him,” the officer had said in his statement. “I’m sure of it. I did a systematic and thorough sweep of the area. No one could’ve survived that barrage of gunfire.”
I had only nodded and made a mental note to conduct a training session for the guards stationed on the towers.
The next thing I had done was call out every other available detective—Melvin Ford, Doug Cheramie, Warren Lafont, and Karla Boudreaux (no relation to the Wellman Boudreaux clan)—and asked them to interview the two dozen prisoners who had been outside at the time of the shooting.
Now that Jerry and Ray had called the area secure, it was time to process the scene. I nodded to the sheriff that we were ready, and Rachael and I followed him from the control room, down a long corridor, and to the gate that led to the recreation yard. I held up my hand when the sheriff reached for the handle.
“With respect, this is as far as you go, Sheriff,” I said. “We’ve got it from here.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Y’all are going out there, so why shouldn’t I?”
“You’re the head of the snake,” I explained. “If they get me, you simply move Jerry in my place and get a new detective to fill my slot
in the bureau. If they get you, they disrupt the operation of the entire department. The parish would have to hold a special election to select a new sheriff and that would cost the taxpayers all kinds of money and time and hassle and—”
“You’ve made your point.” He sighed. “Be safe out there.”
“Always,” I said, and asked Rachael if she was ready.
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
I eased the door open and peered outside, checking all areas of cover in the recreation yard. I had every faith in Jerry and Ray and knew I could trust them with my life, but I never entered a situation without figuring an independent way out of it. Once I’d made a mental note of the route from the immediate crime scene to each point of cover, I stepped into the cool morning air. I stood out in the open for a full minute before waving Rachael outside.
We set our crime scene boxes on the ground near the door and I began a visual examination of the recreation yard while Rachael photographed the scene. As we worked, I kept a wary eye on the distant horizon, knowing that only a couple of hours earlier a killer had lurked out there and—with about three pounds of pressure from an index finger—had sent a killer bullet into the confines of our jail, killing a prisoner who was in our custody and care. It was as unfair and brutal as hunting a deer tied to a tree with a leash.
When we made our way to the body of the deceased prisoner, I cocked my head and grunted. I had seen a lot in my law enforcement days, but this was the first time I’d seen a man sniped while bench pressing close to four hundred pounds. The end result was a grotesque mess of crushed and damaged bone and flesh. I knelt near the end of the bench and closely examined the head of the prisoner—who had been earlier identified by the warden as Garland Robichaux—and noted two bullet holes, one an entrance and the other an exit wound. The bullet had entered under the chin, traveled through his cranial vault, and exited out the top of his head.
