But Not For Fear

by BJ Bourg

  “This can’t be Camille.” I had to raise my voice so Melvin could hear me. “It’s got to be another body.”

  “Unless she was dragged out here,” Melvin surmised. “I’ve seen an alligator at the western end of Lake Berg in the morning and then seen that same gator in Bayou Tail later that afternoon.” He paused and considered what he’d just said. “But I just don’t know why it would be dragging a human over that distance. Alligators typically attack small prey anyway—not full size humans.”

  He was right. If this was not Camille, then it meant there were two victims out here on the water.

  We had traveled for some time when the spotlight finally illuminated the opposite bank of the lake. The small boat slowed and so did Melvin. When we were beside the other boat, the man pointed toward the tree line.

  “It’s under that weeping willow,” he said. “It looks like it got snagged on some underwater branches.”

  I got the man’s name, address, and phone number, and thanked him for making the report. He seemed relieved that he didn’t have to hang around and abruptly left the area.

  Melvin maneuvered the back of the Boston Whaler around so we could sidle up to the body from the starboard side. I angled the spotlight to illuminate the weeping willow. There, in the shadows of the overhanging limbs, I could see a shirtless body.

  “Otis did say Camille had taken off her bikini top,” I muttered. “I guess it could be her.”

  Melvin shut off the engine and used a push pole to ease us closer. When the tree limbs were within reach, I grabbed one and helped guide the boat closer.

  “That should be good enough,” I said to Melvin. “We’re right on top of it.”

  Melvin dropped the anchor and then joined me. A bare back was the only part of the body visible above the water. I retrieved my camera and a pair of latex gloves. After shooting a few pictures, I leaned over the boat and reached for the body.

  When I touched it, it bobbed a little and floated away from me. I lunged forward and reached for the arm. My hand closed around the clammy flesh and I was able to pull it closer to the boat. At this point, I could clearly see that it was not a female at all, but a young male.

  Melvin spread a body bag across the deck and readied it to accept the body. He then leaned over the edge of the boat and reached for one of the legs. “Ready to bring it over?”

  I nodded. “Slow and easy...”

  With great care, we first pulled the body close to the hull and then eased it up onto the gunwale. Here, we balanced it while we shuffled back to make room to lower it onto the body bag. After giving a nod to let Melvin know I was ready, I hooked my hands under the slimy armpits while he latched onto the legs. Grunting, we lifted the body and then lowered it into the body bag.

  I leaned back and took a breath, taking the time to study the body that lay before us. It was a young male, probably nineteen or twenty, dressed in board shorts and water shoes. There were numerous bite marks on his arms and legs, and even one on his torso, but they all seemed to have been made after he died. Due to the rate of decomposition, it appeared he had been in the water for about three days.

  “I don’t remember receiving a report of a missing person,” I said, reaching for the pockets of the man’s shorts.

  “I always check the pass-ons from the day shift when I get to work, and I haven’t seen one either,” Melvin said. “Maybe he’s not due back home yet, so that’s why he hasn’t been missed.”

  That made sense. The front pockets were empty, but I felt something in the side pocket on the left leg. I unzipped the flap and removed a flat plastic carrier that contained some sort of document. Melvin shifted the light so I could read it. It was definitely a fishing license, but I wouldn’t be learning anything from it. The paper on which it was printed was thin and had been saturated by the water. When I tried to peel it apart, the paper tore.

  I cursed. “This was a helpful experiment.”

  We closed the body bag and I secured the plastic carrier in my crime scene box. I then removed my gloves and grabbed a red flag from my box. I tied the flag to the branch under which we’d removed the body. Thus, we could return later if we needed to search for more evidence.

  “Let me have the spotlight,” I said to Melvin. When he handed it to me, I carefully surveyed the area, allowing the light to penetrate the darkness of the trees and underbrush. The ground in that area appeared untrodden. I couldn’t see anything that looked like evidence on the branches, in the water, or on the shore, so I asked Melvin to back the boat away.

  When he did, I turned the light to the right and left, searching the banks as best I could from my vantage point. From the looks of the area, nothing significant had happened here. This was simply where his lifeless vessel had come to rest. I shut off the light and scowled, wondering from where had this man come.

  “Clint, look to the east,” Melvin called, pointing in that direction. “It’s the cavalry. They’re heading for Le Diable.”

  I turned and saw a line of bright lights blinking in and out of view in the distance, all of them heading south. I knew Susan would’ve stayed behind to run the command center, where she could ensure a controlled and orderly response. I grabbed Melvin’s satellite phone and called her cell.

  “Susan, we’ve got a problem,” I said. “We found a body—and it’s not Camille Rainey.”

  “Dear God, please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I wish I could.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Melvin got the angle on the line of racing boats and we caught up to them before they cut through the pass that led into Le Diable Lake. I noticed Amy was leading the charge in the department’s airboat and Takecia was with her.

  Since Takecia was on the water with us, I figured Susan must’ve gotten Baylor Rice or Regan Steed to finish covering Melvin’s shift. While I loved working a small town, it had its limitations. We had a total of seven officers, and that included Susan and me. If there was a large scale riot in town, we’d have more than our hands full and we’d have to rely on the citizenry and the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office for support.

  As it stood now, if we didn’t find Camille in a hurry, I’d be placing a call to Buck Turner, my friend and the sheriff of Chateau Parish. He was always willing to help when we needed him, and the favor was always returned.

  Amy slowed to let Melvin slip into the lead, and then we continued the charge south. The stillness of the night was shattered by the noise from the engines of nearly a dozen boats. The sound alone made my adrenalin surge. This was the teamwork Susan had talked about in the meeting. All of these people—some of them total strangers—were coming together for a common good. I just hoped it would end well. It was too late for the poor fellow lying at our feet, but maybe we’d get lucky with Camille.

  Before long, the pass that led to Le Diable Lake came into view and Melvin veered in that direction. I worked the spotlights as he drove, searching the surrounding water in case I would catch a glimpse of Camille’s body. We weren’t expecting her to be this far from where she’d disappeared, but we couldn’t take anything for granted.

  Melvin slowed as we entered the waters of the lake and he lifted the mic for the loudspeaker. “Okay everyone, let’s fan out and do a grid search. We’ll line up to the right, beginning with me. If you see something, blast your horn.”

  Melvin then began to hug the right bank of the lake and the other boats fanned out to his left, leaving a space of about twenty feet between each of the boats. Everyone backed off on their throttles and the boats sat down hard in the water. The waves from the neighboring boats rocked us gently and I settled in for a long night.

  The lake was a large oblong body of water that stretched from north to south. We had entered from the northern pass, so we found ourselves facing south. On Melvin’s command, we began a slow and methodical search of the water, covering a sliver of the western portion of the lake. I took a spotlight and moved to the port side to search, while Melvin searched the starboar
d side.

  It took over an hour to make our way to the middle of the lake and it was then that I heard a deep, rhythmic thumping sound. I looked off to the east. The lights from the neighboring boats blinded me somewhat, but I was able to see flashing lights in the distance beyond the last boat. It appeared to be coming from the banks of the lake. I realized instantly that the college kids were still partying.

  I tapped Melvin on the shoulder and pointed to the party. “Can you take me there? I want to talk to those kids.”

  Melvin nodded and got on his radio to let the other boaters know that Amy was now in charge. Cutting in front of our search party, the Boston Whaler sliced through the water, moving at a speed that pinned my hair back. As we got closer to the shore, the music became louder and the picture clearer. There were shirtless boys and topless girls dancing around a large fire. Several large speakers that hung from trees blared Kenny Chesney’s hit song Bar at the End of the World. I loved the song, but I was singularly focused at the moment.

  Melvin pushed the Boston Whaler up against the bank and I launched myself into the air. My knees bent slightly to absorb the impact when I landed. No one seemed to notice I’d even arrived. I made my way toward the speakers and searched for the music source. I tripped on a couple who were embracing passionately on the ground beneath the speakers. I mumbled an apology and finally found an iPhone resting on a tree branch. I pressed the pause button and everything grew instantly quiet.

  Several people voiced their objections, but then clamped their mouths shut when I hollered that I was with the Mechant Loup Police Department and I needed their attention.

  “What’d we do wrong?” asked an inebriated boy who couldn’t be more than eighteen.

  I ignored him and walked through the stunned crowd. Most of them were trying to stand straighter and appear sober. I saw one girl who actually looked to have her wits about her—at least she was covered up.

  “Do you know Camille Rainey?” I asked.

  She frowned and nodded. “She’s the girl who drowned.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “But I saw the whole thing. I was in the water with my friend and we heard Otis yell for someone to call 911, but we couldn’t get cell service. When I looked toward Otis, I could see that she was nowhere in sight. She just disappeared.”

  “Did you see her before she went under?”

  “I saw her take her bikini top off and jump in the lake.” She shifted her eyes away from mine. “That’s when we all took our tops off and went in, too. But she went way out into the deep part. The rest of us stayed in the shallow water.”

  “So, you didn’t see when she actually disappeared?”

  “No, but I heard Otis call for help right when she went under and I saw she was gone.”

  I cursed under my breath and looked around. The smell of stale beer and urine was strong.

  “Can I go home?” the girl asked. “I’ve been trying to call my parents, but I can’t get through to them. The group I came with told me they’re not leaving until tomorrow and I can’t find Chrissy.”

  “Who’s Chrissy?”

  “She’s the one who was with me when Camille drowned. I’ve looked everywhere but can’t find her.”

  My heart fell. “Where was she when you last saw her?”

  “She was walking with Otis.”

  “Otis? The same Otis who was yelling for Camille?” I asked. “Otis Williams?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she leave with him?”

  “No, sir. He said he was going back to the boat launch to get some help and she said she was staying here in case Camille came back. Otis was actually the only one who drove around trying to find Camille.” She indicated the crowd with a wave of her hand. “Everyone else just kept on drinking. They don’t care about anything or anyone. They just want to party. Otis was the only one trying to help.”

  Guilt, perhaps? “Where was Chrissy when you last saw her?”

  The girl pointed toward the water. “She was walking with Otis to the jet ski. She said she would be right back, but I never saw her again. I think she started walking along the shore to see if Camille swam back to land.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It was almost dark.” She glanced upward, thoughtful. “Yeah, it was right before dark.”

  “What’s Chrissy’s last name?”

  “Graves.”

  Hoping it wasn’t an omen, I thanked her and walked off. I grabbed the arm of a young man who walked by. “Hey, did you see what happened to Camille Rainey?”

  “Who?” His breath reeked of an alcoholic beverage.

  “The girl who went missing while swimming in the lake—did you see it happen?”

  “Someone drowned?”

  I let go of his arm and waved him off. I then moved through the crowd, asking random people if they’d witnessed anything. Some said they’d seen it happen, but most of them didn’t know Camille. When I asked why no one went for help, the most frequent answer was that they were waiting for daylight.

  As I made my way through the crowd, I spotted Melvin along the shore. He was about a hundred feet from the Boston Whaler and he was studying the ground. I approached him.

  “Drunk kids are useless.” I hooked my thumb in my waistband and indicated the ground. “Did you find something?”

  He shined his flashlight away from where he stood, following the shoreline with the beam. “These bare footprints head in that direction. They’re small, probably a woman. I’m going to see where it leads.”

  “I’m coming,” I said. “If I get one more whiff of alcohol, I’ll blow a .08 myself.”

  Melvin and I followed the footprints in the mud along the shore for about five minutes, with Melvin leading the way. Melvin estimated the trail was about an hour old. The tracks didn’t go in a straight line, like someone with a destination in mind. Rather, they seemed to amble aimlessly, stopping by the water’s edge, continuing along the shore, going into the trees, and then returning to the shore. It was consistent with someone looking for something—or someone. We had travelled a few hundred yards from the party when Melvin stopped abruptly.

  “What is it?” I asked, craning my neck to see around him. “What’d you find.”

  “Oh, shit, Clint, this ain’t good.”

  I moved beside him and stared toward where he pointed. I caught my breath. There were drag marks on the ground that disappeared into the dark and muddy waters of Le Diable Lake.

  “Something dragged this girl into the water.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Melvin squatted near the drag marks and touched them gingerly with his fingers. He shined the light into the water and then in the opposite direction.

  “She was close to the water when she was pulled in.” He stood, cocked his head to the side. “If she was squatting here, it’s possible an alligator could’ve viewed her as prey. She clawed at the mud with at least one hand, but there’s nothing to grab onto in this area, so she went in easy.”

  I pointed to the ground. “There’s no blood.”

  “She must’ve been taken real quick.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.” I walked in a short circle, rubbing my face with both hands as I did so. “Why would an alligator be targeting humans? This is a target-rich environment. There’s no end to varmints in these waters. It’s like an animal buffet out there.”

  Melvin was thoughtful. “This lake is home to some of the biggest alligators in southeast Louisiana, and there’re more alligators per square mile here than anywhere else. Only three alligator hunters have permits to harvest from this area, so the population will only continue to grow. It’s possible they’re getting low on grub.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why they’re targeting humans.” I paused for a long moment, studying Melvin’s expression in the glow from his flashlight. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his shaved he
ad, snapping out of his dreamlike stare. “I wasn’t thinking this is the work of Godzator.”

  I shivered at the mention of the name. Godzator was the only alligator I could think of that had actually attacked a human since I’d been in this area, but even that attack hadn’t resulted in a fatality. Still, it had been a violent encounter and one that I would never forget.

  Melvin pulled out his phone and took several pictures of the drag marks. If it were to rain—and that was almost a given during summertime in Louisiana—they would surely disappear. When he was done, he spoke again.

  “I recorded the numbers on the boats and jet skis tied up near the party. I had to get in the shallow water a few times, and each time I did, two nice-size gators would start moving toward me.” He scowled. “People are definitely feeding the gators out here. In fact, I received a complaint just last month about some tourists doing just that in this lake. It was on the opposite bank, but it was here. She might’ve washed her hands in the water and the gators heard the splash. They might’ve approached her thinking she was food.”

  Melvin had spent more time on the water than everyone at the police department combined. He had even taken my dogs on boat patrol recently while Susan and I were out of town working a case. If anyone knew these waters, it was him.

  “Do people come to this spot often?” I asked.

  “All of the time.” Melvin turned to head back to the party. “It’s become a real hotspot since the whole Big Foot incident. The locals don’t like it. These party goers are loud and dirty. You saw the trash back there.”

  I nodded and shook my head. It was almost a losing battle. In order to write citations for littering, we would need evidence that a particular person committed the infraction. We couldn’t simply write everyone a ticket just because they were in the area. We needed to actually find the ones responsible for throwing the trash.

  When we got back to the party, I walked to the Boston Whaler and climbed aboard. I called Amy on the radio and asked her to send Brennan Boudreaux’s airboats over so we could get the kids out of here. I then retrieved the mic and switched on the bullhorn.