by BJ Bourg
“The only good thing for Mr. Robichaux here,” I said, “was he never felt the bar drop across his neck.”
“He didn’t?” Rachael pulled her eye from the camera. “How can you tell?”
I used the opportunity to offer a quick lesson in terminal ballistics, explaining how a high-powered rifle round entering the cranial vault would produce instantaneous death. “He was dead before the bar touched his neck. Hell, he didn’t even know he dropped it.”
“Damn!” Rachael whistled. “Good for him, because that looks like a horrible way to go.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said slowly, examining an apparent bullet hole in Robichaux’s belly, just below the sternum. I leaned over and eased my head under the weight bench, finding the spot where the bullet had ripped through the wooden platform. I traced an imaginary line from the hole in the belly to the hole in the bench, and I continued along the same line until my finger reached the dirt under the bench. A few inches away from my finger was a hole in the mud. I pointed to it. “That’s one of the projectiles.”
Rachael nodded and indicated with her head toward an evidence flag she had stabbed into the ground several feet away. “That looks like the spot where the bullet from his head entered the ground.”
I smiled my approval and then—lining up the bullet holes—tried to visually trace the path of the bullet from its point of impact out to a possible sniper hide. Off in the distance, there were trees, open fields, and—
“There!” I said, pointing toward an old structure that used to serve as a sugarcane plant called Chateau Sugars. “That’s where the shot came from.” I jerked out my radio and called for Jerry, asking him if there was any evidence of a sniper hide at the old plant.
“Negative,” he said. “It was the first place we surveyed. There are a few spots that would make for a good hide, but they’re vacant at the moment.”
I told them to hold their position until I could get out there and search the plant, and Rachael and I continued processing the scene.
After we had examined, photographed, and measured everything, we recovered the two projectiles from the ground. They were both badly damaged and we only located a small portion of each bullet. We packaged them and made a final sweep of the entire yard, looking for anything that could even remotely be used as evidence.
“There’s nothing to this scene,” Rachael said. “Two bullets and a dead guy—what else is there?”
I pointed upward to the outer corners of the jail. “Security cameras. We’ve got this murder on tape.”
Rachael shuddered.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know if I want to watch the footage.”
“Why not?”
“I still remember what it looked like when Captain Landry got killed.” She shook her head. “That image haunted me for weeks. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the way his head contorted as the bullet blasted through it.”
“The more of these videos you see, the more acclimated you’ll become to the job.” I began packing up as I continued talking, explaining how it was very different for a cop to watch another cop die, rather than for a cop to watch a civilian die. “When you see a civilian die, it’s harder for you to relate, because you don’t view yourself as a victim, but, rather, a savior of sorts. It’s your job to protect the citizens you serve, so you view yourself as a protector, not a victim. When you see another cop get gunned down or murdered in some other way, it’s a whole different ball game. It hits closer to home, because you suddenly realize it could happen to you—you could become a victim. That’s what happened when you watched Captain Landry die, you came face to face with the real possibility that you could be killed doing this job…and that’s okay. You just need to be able to function beyond those insecurities and fears.”
As Rachael mulled over what I said, we finished gathering up our gear and headed back to the control room.
CHAPTER 28
Once we were back in the control room, I asked the lieutenant on shift to pull up all of the surveillance footage from the last few days. “Burn them to a disc and have someone drop them off at the bureau.”
Karla was coming around the corner and she volunteered to take possession of the discs. “Oh, and London,” she said as I turned and headed for the warden’s office to meet with the sheriff. “Melvin’s on his way to the NOPD crime lab to have the Beretta you recovered from Zach tested.”
I nodded and asked about the interviews. “Did anyone see anything?”
She shook her head. “They all said they were busy doing other things when they heard a gunshot. They said that was when the guard started shooting toward the trees and screaming for everyone to get down. That’s when they ran for cover.”
I thanked her and then led her and Rachael to the warden’s office. Once we’d briefed the sheriff on our findings, I requested that a guard remain with Robichaux’s body until the coroner’s investigator could arrive to transport him to the morgue.
Warden Boutin said he’d have someone wait with the body and then told me his lieutenant was burning the surveillance footage from eight cameras to an external hard drive.
“Give them to Karla when you’re done.” I pointed toward a folder on his desk. “Is that the prison jacket on Garland Robichaux?”
The warden nodded and slid it toward me.
I hefted it in my hand. “It’s not very thick.”
“He’s not much of a criminal.” Warden Boutin shrugged. “His biggest problem is he likes to settle things with his fists. Other than that, we never hear from him.”
“Why’s he in here this time?” I flipped through the packet, looking for his latest arrest.
“He beat up this kid—and by kid, I mean a twenty-year-old punk—who hit his daughter. According to the report, his daughter’s boyfriend slapped her real good and marked up her face a bit. When Garland got home from work and saw her face, he made her tell him what happened. It wasn’t pretty after that.”
I found the narrative report and glanced over it. It seemed Garland had kicked down the door to the boy’s apartment and dragged him into the front yard and beat the crap out of him. “This kid and any of his family and friends could be suspects.”
“Want me to track him down while you and Rachael look for the sniper’s shooting position?” Karla asked. “I can take Doug and Warren with me.”
“Good idea.” I handed her the arrest packet. “Make a copy of everything in here before giving it back to the control room.”
Karla grabbed the packet and hurried off.
I pushed my fists against the tabletop and leaned on them, lost in thought. After a while, I looked up at warden Boutin again. “Is it true that Zach Bailey was in the same cell as Garland Robichaux?”
The warden nodded. “One of my guards said they walked outside together, but that’s not odd considering they were bunking together.”
“Any sort of dustup between them during the night?”
“Last night was quiet. We didn’t have trouble with anyone.”
I nodded and glanced at Rachael.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I can’t help but think this is connected in some way to Denny’s murder.”
“How so?” Sheriff Chiasson asked. A former detective himself, he had a keen sense of perception, but I got the impression he didn’t see a link between the two cases.
“Nothing I can point to,” I explained. “This is just one of those gut feelings I get from time to time.”
“Well, I don’t need to tell you that you need more than your gut to link these two cases.” The sheriff looked at Warden Boutin. “Any reason to think this was an inside job?”
“Meaning?”
“Is it possible the guard on the tower shot him—either by accident or for some other reason?”
I shook my head. “That shot didn’t come from the guard tower.”
“Are you sure?” the sheriff asked.
“Positive—and that’s not my gut talking.” I then waved for Rachael to follow me. “Let’s go find out where this coward hid when he fired those shots.”
CHAPTER 29
I parked my truck in the shadow of a large oak tree along the shoulder of the street leading up to the abandoned buildings that used to serve as the operations for Chateau Sugars. I hit the automatic window buttons and all four of my door windows buzzed down, letting in the cool afternoon breeze.
I sat there for a long moment and listened. Other than the sound of my truck settling into place, everything was deathly quiet and the place looked like a ghost town. I pulled on my throat mic and earpiece, activated my radio. “Sierra One to Two, any movement?” I whispered to Jerry.
“Negative. If he’s still out there, he’s damn good, because there hasn’t been a breath of movement from anywhere for at least two hours.”
To the left of the shell street, and about twenty yards away, was a large custom-made bridge crane with a covered catwalk that stretched the entire length of the piece of equipment. A large metal building was positioned near the bridge crane and the large swinging doors were open. The three windows on our side of the building were busted and allowed sunlight inside, lighting up the place just enough to see heavy equipment and tractor parts near the entrance.
To the right of the street, there was a long row of tall factory-type buildings. The exterior of the structures was constructed of corrugated metal and the once-galvanized coating was slowly being destroyed by long strips of rust. The reddish tint gave the building character, but it helped to mark the long years of neglect to which this place had been subjected.
“Sierra Two,” I called over my radio, “any ideas about where the shooter was located when the shots were fired?”
“There are some windows high up on several of the factory buildings,” Jerry’s voice boomed into my earpiece, “but they’re all intact. The most promising spot is up on that catwalk.”
I turned to Rachael and shot a thumb over my shoulder. “Grab the shotgun from the back seat.”
As Rachael armed herself with my shotgun, I pulled my AR-15 from its standup rack on the hump between us. “Stay close to me and keep your eyes peeled,” I said softly, slipping out the driver’s door and hurrying to the base of the oak tree. Once we had squatted there for a few minutes and Jerry confirmed we hadn’t attracted any attention, I pointed out several areas of cover—most of which were pieces of heavy metal equipment that could stop a .50 caliber rifle round dead in its track—that we would use on our approach to the ladder leading up to the catwalk.
“We’re going to move from equipment to equipment, covering each other as we go,” I explained. “I’m going first. Ready?” When she nodded, I told her to cover me and then moved swiftly but smoothly across a short patch of open space, dropping to a knee beside a giant tractor engine that was shoved up beside one of the buildings. Tall weeds surrounded it and offered a great hiding spot.
After a few tense seconds, Jerry radioed that all was clear. I trained my rifle on the opening to the nearest metal building and nodded for Rachael to join me. When she reached me, we switched rolls again and again until we finally arrived at the base of the ladder.
I remained in that position for a long time, just listening and scanning the area, searching every shadow and crack, looking for anything that would indicate the presence of a human. I knew we would be vulnerable on the ascent up to the catwalk, but there was no other way to get up there to check it out.
I was about to reach for the third or fourth rung when Rachael gasped, grabbed at my shoulder. I looked where she pointed and my heartbeat quickened just a little. There, amongst the rocks and muck of the ground cover, was a spent brass shell casing—and it was bright and shiny. I instinctively glanced up again—the muzzle of my rifle following my eyes—and half expected to see a bad guy hovering over us. There was none.
I turned my attention back toward the casing and leaned close. It was a .308 caliber casing and the head stamp bore the same inscription as the type of bullets I shot. I nodded my appreciation because these were the most accurate match grade ammunition money could buy, but then I frowned. We weren’t dealing with some weekend hunter or an average shooter. We were dealing with someone who was familiar with ammunition, which meant they were familiar with weapons, and that meant they were very dangerous. However, they weren’t a highly skilled sniper, because snipers never leave their casings behind—none that I train, anyway.
I visually examined the ground, one square inch at a time, searching for the second casing. It was nowhere in our immediate vicinity. “Wait here until I get to the top,” I told Rachael, slinging my rifle over my shoulder and scaling the ladder as quickly as I could. Although I made quick work of it, I still felt exposed for longer than I liked. A skilled sniper could’ve easily taken me out, and there wouldn’t have been much anyone could’ve done about it.
Once I reached the catwalk, I pulled myself over the top and landed lightly on my feet. From my new vantage point, I surveyed the area—looking for hostiles—but all was quiet. I looked back toward the jail and found that I had a perfect view of the recreation yard. I held up my thumb and gauged the distance. It was between 420 and 450 yards. Whoever made that shot had spent some time behind the trigger.
I glanced down toward the ground far beneath me and—for a split second—wondered if Rachael was afraid of heights. We’ll find out soon enough, I thought, waving at her to come up.
Without hesitation, she attacked the ladder and scaled the rungs two at a time like I had. The ladder shook and creaked with each step she took. As she climbed, I carefully scanned the area below us that Jerry and Ray might not be able to cover, my rifle at the ready. Jerry spoke into my ear several times to reassure me everything looked clear from where they were.
When Rachael’s head popped up over the catwalk, I reached down and offered my hand to help her up. We both straightened and she dusted off her pants. “Did I ever mention that I’m deadly afraid of heights?” she asked.
I gasped in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Why do you think I live in Louisiana? The tallest hills we have are ant piles.”
“But you just climbed eighty feet into the air on an open ladder!”
“My eyes were closed and I was praying out loud.” She smiled. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”
I was proud of her for being able to function beyond her phobia, and I said as much. We then slowly walked the length of the catwalk, searching for any evidence that the sniper might’ve left behind. We reached the end without finding anything and then began walking back toward the ladder. We were several feet away when Rachael pointed to the runway ladder. “There’s the second casing.”
My heart sank just a little when I saw the spent shell casing nestled up under the narrow groove beneath the runway rail, which ran perpendicular to the catwalk. It was about fifteen feet from the edge of the catwalk and out of our reach. The shell casing was tucked under the groove in such a way that we couldn’t knock it out by throwing something at it. I glanced down at the ground below and then at the rusted runway beam that the rail was attached to. I knew the beam wouldn’t even notice my 190 pounds, but the rail was only about three inches wide. While I had often participated in my own form of tightrope walking as a kid—navigating the tops of chain link fences in the neighborhood—it was a bit windy out here and we were high above the ground.
“Okay, Rachael,” I said, trying to stifle a grin, “since you found it, you get to go out and recover it.”
“Hell, I don’t know if I’ll be able to climb back down that thin-ass ladder.”
Laughing, I considered my options and figured I could probably straddle the runway beam and scoot out to the casing with only a slight risk of falling. I grounded my rifle and began to step over the catwalk railing, but my thoughts turned to Dawn and I paused.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rachael asked, grabbing at my arm. “You�
�re not about to go out there, are you?”
Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I constantly risked my life for my job, as did workers in many other professions, but I suddenly found myself wondering what Dawn would do if I were to get hurt or killed. I wasn’t sure I liked the feeling of second-guessing my actions because of how someone else would react to them. In my line of work, if you hesitated out of consideration for your own safety, the distraction could actually place you in far more danger and get you—or someone else—killed.
Grunting, and under Rachael’s objection, I stepped out over the catwalk railing and slowly lowered myself onto the runway beam. Resting my boots on the bottom lip of the runway beam, I began to pull myself closer and closer to the spot where the shell casing was tucked under the lip. A gust of wind blew in from the north and I gripped the upper lip of the runway beam a little tighter.
“If you fall, I get all of your guns,” Jerry called into my earpiece from his perch 400 yards away.
I involuntarily burst out laughing and right at that moment the rusted lower lip of the runway beam broke away and my left foot shot out into empty space, my body lurching violently forward. I lost my balance and tipped over the left side of the runway beam, muttering, “Oh, shit,” as I toppled forward.
“Oh, my God—London!” Rachael screamed from somewhere behind me.
CHAPTER 30
Little Rock, Arkansas
Dawn jerked awake when a hand touched her shoulder. She almost punched out in surprise, but caught herself when she saw Doctor Ginger bending over her. The doctor’s face was drawn and she leaned wearily on the arm of the chair, but her eyes sparkled a little, and that gave Dawn a glimmer of hope. “Ms. Luke, we worked all through the night and we were finally able to get your mother’s temperature down a little. The god news is, her temp keeps moving in the right direction. Please understand, she’s not out of danger yet, but this is a good sign.” She paused and took a haggard breath. “If you’d like, you guys can see her now.”
