But Not For Lust

by BJ Bourg

  “Enjoy the quiet days,” I said, wincing when I realized I sounded too much like some of the old detectives I’d worked with in La Mort years ago. I decided it was too late to turn back, so I continued. “Once things start falling apart, you’ll relish the boring days.”

  Without looking at me, he shook his head and said, “I don’t know, maybe Amy’s right.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “About?”

  “She said you were getting too old for this shit.”

  We both started laughing. Amy Cooke was the one detective I supervised, and she liked to mess with me about my age. She and Baylor had started dating a couple of months ago and it now seemed her antics were rubbing off on him. I suddenly sobered up and frowned.

  “How is she?”

  He frowned, too. “You know Amy. Her body isn’t healing as fast as she’d like it to. The good news is that she’s not using the wheelchair anymore, but—most importantly to her—the bad news is she’s not running through the swamps or kicking people in the face yet. They’ve scaled back the physical therapy to three days a week now, but it’s more aggressive. They think she’ll regain most of her strength within the next few weeks.”

  Amy had been the target of a brutal ambush two months ago that had left her hospitalized in critical condition. By all accounts, she should’ve been dead, but her dogged willingness to live and the excellent work by the first responders and ER doctors had all contributed to her survival. While her doctors had predicted a full recovery, they had also cautioned that the road back would be a long and painstaking one.

  “Is she still self-conscious about her voice?” I had spoken to her Friday and her voice was still a little raspy from the bullet wound to her neck. She kept apologizing for the way she sounded.

  “She is,” Baylor said with a grin, “but I keep telling her it sounds sexy as all hell—especially when she’s mad. The scar’s been reduced to a dimple. The doctors did a great job sewing it up. You’d never know a 5.56 bullet ripped through her throat and almost killed her.”

  “Is she worried about the scar?”

  “No!” He shook his head in exasperation. “She’s actually proud of it. She says every time she sees that dimple it reminds her of our first date.”

  I laughed at that. Baylor and Amy had not actually been on a date when she was shot, but they had been working together that day and had talked about starting to date. Personally, I was glad to see them together. They were both good people and they deserved each other.

  “Why don’t you tell her to come by the office on the days she doesn’t have physical therapy?” I suggested. “She can do some follow-ups by phone and can help me dig for info on the computers.”

  “Oh, she’d love that!”

  “Well, good,” I said, reaching for the gearshift. “I’m heading to the house. Tell Amy I’m looking forward to seeing her next week. I’ve got a handful of theft cases to follow up on, and I could use the help.”

  “You’ll have one more.” Baylor lifted a theft report from the seat beside him. “Red McKenzie made a report this morning that one of his trail cameras had been stolen. I walked out to where it occurred, but I didn’t find anything. He doesn’t have a suspect, so I had nowhere to go with it. I go off shift for two days, so I figured I’d forward it to you in case something comes up while I’m off.”

  “A theft case—now that’s some action, isn’t it?” I asked with a smile. “It’s better than getting a cat out of a tree.”

  Before he could respond, his police radio scratched to life and Beth Gandy asked for his location. Beth was our weekend dispatcher. She had suffered a tremendous loss when her son had been murdered four years ago, and that was how I’d met her. She had later come to work for us on the weekends. She’d worked the night shift a few different times when we were between dispatchers and had even taken Lindsey Savoie’s place during the day shift, but she always returned to the weekend shift, which was her favorite time to work.

  “I’m in Mechant Loup East,” Baylor replied. “On Waxtuygi Road.”

  “I need you to proceed to Orange Way.” Beth paused and a bit of static came through the speaker. “We received a report of a…um…I’m not sure how to categorize this one.”

  Another pause and more static. Finally, she came on and gave the details in plain English. We always tried to use radio codes as much as possible for the sake of brevity and privacy, but most of the townspeople who owned scanners already knew what most of our codes meant.

  “It seems that a mail carrier was delivering a package to Carol Richardson’s house and she said Mrs. Richardson didn’t come to the door like she usually does.”

  Baylor glanced at me and shrugged. He keyed up the mic. “Maybe she was tied up?”

  “Well, the door to the house was open, and so was the door to Ty’s camper.” Beth paused when a phone rang in the background. When she came back on, she continued. “She said there was a pizza box on the ground near Ty’s open camper door. The pizza was scattered around like there might have been a disturbance.”

  Had I been one of my dogs, my ears would’ve perked right up at that moment. I was very familiar with Ty Richardson. He had been suffering from mental illness for most of his adult life, but he was a good guy. I’d seen him during his low points and also during his good times. When he was taking his medicine and seeing his doctors like he should, he was a productive member of our community. In fact, he had worked as a janitor for the middle school in town, and had done a great job. He was a hard worker and there had been no complaints from the students or teachers. Through the years, he’d even helped me with a couple of cases.

  “Ten-four,” Baylor said into his radio mic. “I’m en route to check it out.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I said. “I’ve got a rapport with Ty. If he’s upset about something, I might be able to get him calm.”

  Baylor nodded his thanks before whipping his cruiser around and heading out of the parking area. I was right behind him.

  I frowned as I drove. Last I’d heard, Ty had quit taking his medication and he was refusing to see his doctors. After finding him roaming around a park two months ago, Susan had obtained a physician’s emergency commitment order and Ty had been hospitalized for seventy-two hours. She had checked on him a few weeks ago, but his mother had said he was refusing to see his doctor. He’d told his mom he didn’t need the shots anymore and that he’d found his own medication.

  While it was a sad situation, there was nothing we could do from a legal standpoint. If the man didn’t want to take his medication, we couldn’t force him to do so. The most we could do was be available for his mom when she called. All of our officers were trained to interact with people who suffered from mental illness. They were all familiar with Ty and knew he was harmless, but they also recognized that they still had to approach him with caution. He was unpredictable and that made our job challenging. If he ever threatened one of our officers with great bodily harm or death, our officers would have to do what was necessary to keep themselves and the public safe. A police officer’s primary task was making it home safely at the end of each shift—and they could let no one get in the way of that.

  I took a breath as we turned onto Orange Way, worried about what we might find once we arrived at Ty’s house.

  CHAPTER 4

  Baylor stopped two houses away from Ty’s camper and pulled to the side of the street. I parked behind him and got out of my truck. I glanced down at my cargo shorts, T-shirt, and water shoes. I would normally feel underdressed for handling a complaint, but I figured it was actually good that I looked less like an authority figure and more like Ty.

  “I figured you could go first,” Baylor said in a quiet voice when he approached me. “He knows you and you’re not wearing a uniform, so he might feel more at ease dealing with you.”

  I nodded and hesitated before closing my door. I stared at the butt of my pistol sticking out from the console. If Ty ever posed a danger to me, I knew I wo
uld probably take unnecessary risks to save his life. However, I wasn’t about to let anyone kill me. Just in case, I grabbed the Springfield 1911 .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol and shoved it in my waistband, just to the right of the small of my back.

  After retiring my Glock 22 .40 caliber pistol a few years back, I had taken to carrying my Beretta 92FS 9 mm pistol while on duty. I loved that Beretta, but it was a little thick to carry off duty, so I usually kept my 1911 with me when I wasn’t working.

  After making sure my T-shirt concealed my pistol, I gave Baylor a nod and set off down the street. I had barely reached the front quarter panel of Baylor’s cruiser when I saw the postal Jeep heading in my direction from the back of the street. I decided to wait and see if the carrier had any more information to offer. Baylor joined me at the front of his vehicle.

  A few seconds later, the Jeep stopped and I recognized the carrier as Sandra Voison. She delivered the mail around town and she knew everyone.

  “Hey, Sandra, how are you?”

  “Clint,” she said with a nod, looking me up and down with her green eyes. She blew a few strands of wavy blonde hair out of her face. “I love your new uniform.”

  I smiled.

  She turned to Baylor. “What’s up, Bay? How’s Amy?”

  “She’s getting better,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

  I shot a thumb toward Ty’s mom’s house. “What’s going on over there?”

  Her brow furrowed, causing worry lines to appear on her weathered face. “I’m not sure. It seems strange that Carol didn’t come to the door when I dropped off her package. She always comes outside when she hears my Jeep.”

  I grunted suddenly and asked why she was working on a Sunday.

  “Haven’t you heard?” she asked with a smirk. “We deliver packages on Sundays now. All of those online orders don’t just magically appear on people’s doorsteps, so that means I hardly get any days off anymore. You’d think they could check the box on the order and wait an extra day.”

  I apologized, even though I didn’t do any online ordering.

  “Forget about it.” She waved a hand and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the console. “Anyway, I also noticed a pizza box and food scraps on the ground just outside of Ty’s camper. He might be a lot of things, but that boy respects his mom and she likes to keep a clean yard. I saw the inside of his camper once and it was a mess, but he never drags his trash out into the yard. He knows better.”

  She paused and took a long drag of her cigarette. After blowing out the smoke, she continued. “That’s another reason I think something’s wrong. The open door to the house must mean that Carol was up already this morning, but there’s no way she’d leave a mess in the driveway. She would’ve gone straight to that trash and picked it up—even before having her coffee. That’s why I’m worried it might’ve been open all night.”

  I remembered there being a screen door on Mrs. Richardson’s house. “Was the screen door open?”

  “No, that was closed, but it’s spring loaded, so it would stay closed.” She lifted the hand that held the cigarette. “Now, look, it’s normal for her to have her house door open, but she always comes to the door when I deliver a package. I even called out to her, but she didn’t answer or come to the door.”

  I nodded, glanced at Baylor. He raised an eyebrow to indicate he didn’t know what to make of it either.

  “And I’ve never known Ty to keep his door open,” Sandra continued. “He’s kinda paranoid, you know? He thinks people are watching him, so he keeps his door closed and locked. I can only remember him opening it one or two times when I delivered a package. I guess he was on his meds during those deliveries, because he actually talked to me.” She touched the postal service emblem on her light blue uniform shirt. “He thinks I’m a fed or something.”

  “Did you bring the mail yesterday?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “What time did you pass?”

  “I was running a little late yesterday, so it must’ve been about two or two-thirty when I delivered the mail down this street.”

  “Did you have a package to deliver for Mrs. Richardson?”

  “Nah, I just dropped some mail in her box.”

  “Could you tell if the doors were open and if that pizza box was on the ground at that time?”

  “I don’t know about the door to the house, but the door to the camper wasn’t open and the pizza box wasn’t there.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I always look to see if my customers are outside when I pass, and I would’ve noticed if the pizza was on the ground.”

  “Did you see Carol or Ty at all yesterday?”

  “No, they weren’t outside.”

  I nodded and thanked her. Whatever had happened out at the Richardson home had taken place after two o’clock yesterday afternoon.

  When Sandra was gone, I turned and headed toward Ty’s house, with Baylor now deciding to join me. I wasn’t sure what we would find, but I certainly didn’t like the sounds of things.

  CHAPTER 5

  Before we reached the driveway of Carol Richardson’s small gray house, I could already see that the front doors to her house and Ty’s camper were open. I also saw the pizza box on the concrete like Sandra had described. It was from Pizza Bayou and there were slices of pizza scattered on the ground. Some of the pieces were smashed up and torn, as though someone had ripped them apart with their hands.

  I decided to check out Ty’s place first, so I waved for Baylor to follow me across the wide driveway. When we reached the open door to the camper, I moved to the right side—being careful not to step on slices of pizza—and Baylor moved to the left. I carefully employed a technique called slicing the pie to scan the inside of Ty’s camper, but there was no movement from within and I detected no one.

  I gave Baylor a nod and he sliced the pie from his side. Neither of us had our guns drawn, but my hand was close by my side, and so was Baylor’s.

  When Baylor had reached the end of his range of view, he lifted a thumb to let me know all was clear.

  I quickly advanced up the metal steps—not remaining in the doorway long—and moved to one side. The small camper rocked under my weight. Baylor joined me a split second later and moved to the opposite side of the doorway. I noticed that there were pizza scraps on the small round table in the kitchen area. Pizza scraps were also scattered on the floor. A cell phone was on the table, along with empty soda bottles and a pile of microwave dinner packages.

  The floor was littered with trash and there was no way we would be able to negotiate the tiny enclosure without making some kind of noise. I raised a hand to let Baylor know I was fixing to make a move. I pointed to the tiny bathroom door and made a sign for him to watch it. I then turned my attention to the door that led to the only bedroom in the place.

  “Ty Richardson,” I said out loud, my eyes focused like a laser on the door to his bedroom. “It’s Clint Wolf. Is everything okay back there?”

  Nothing. Not a whisper of a sound or even the slightest movement. If someone was in that room, the simple act of shifting in bed would have caused the whole camper to shake.

  “Ty, it’s Clint,” I called again. “I need to talk to you, buddy.”

  There was still no sound or movement, so I nodded to let Baylor know I was moving forward. I picked my way as best I could through the mess on the floor. Making minimal noise, I finally made it to the door and took the knob in my hand. I couldn’t step to either side in the narrow hallway, so I didn’t waste time. I quickly twisted the knob and lunged into the room.

  I stopped abruptly when I came face-to-face with a large pile of junk resting atop the full-size bed. It took up almost the entire floor space in the room and I knew there was no way Ty had slept in this room for a long time.

  “It’s clear,” I called over my shoulder, grimacing at the assortment of junk piled in what was supposed to be his sleeping quarters. There were even old lawnmower parts mixed in the pile of debris. “He’s not in
here.”

  When I turned, I saw that Baylor had entered the tiny bathroom. “Hey, Clint, check this out,” he said, backing out of the room and pointing toward the tiny sink.

  I moved closer and peered inside. The toilet lid was up, exposing a dirty commode that hadn’t been flushed in weeks. The tiny shower was filled with junk. An old weed eater, a pile of dry-rotted water hoses, and pieces of a chainsaw were just some of the items crammed into the small space.

  Finally, my eyes moved to the sink and I scowled. There, resting at the bottom of the sink was a glass bowl pipe, a small plastic baggie, and a torch lighter.

  “What the hell?” I stared in shock. “Ty’s smoking crystal meth now?”

  “Have you ever known him to use drugs?” Baylor asked.

  I shook my head and exited the camper. I didn’t know what to think of the situation so far and I was shocked to learn of Ty’s possible drug use. First, though, I had to find him. If he wasn’t in the camper, then he should be in his mom’s house, but I wasn’t convinced. If neither of them had come outside yet to see what all the fuss was about, that could only mean that something was wrong—very wrong.

  As we approached the front door to Mrs. Richardson’s house, Baylor got on his radio and called to dispatch and let them know we were Code Four, which meant things were okay—for now, at least.

  Before entering Mrs. Richardson’s house, I rapped loudly on the wooden frame.

  “Mrs. Richardson!” I called through the screen door. “It’s Clint Wolf. Can I come in and talk to you?”

  With my mouth partially open, I cocked my head to the side as I listened intently, hoping for the slightest of sounds. I heard nothing.

  “Shit, Baylor,” I whispered. “This doesn’t look good.”

  “Let me check the perimeter before we go in,” he said. “See if there are any other open doors or windows.”