by BJ Bourg
I jerked my steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting Gabe. I was now heading straight for the trees that lined the shoulder of the road. I reached for the brake pedal, but pressed the accelerator instead. My Tahoe raced forward, heading straight for a large oak tree. I braced myself for impact, but suddenly found myself back on Old Blackbird Highway, heading straight for Gabe Burke.
I was about to swerve to miss him, but he lifted a pistol and aimed it directly at me. Changing my mind, I smashed the accelerator and plowed right over him. I felt the vehicle bounce roughly as though I’d raced over a speed bump.
I stopped my Tahoe and approached Gabe’s body. I cocked my head to the side, confused. Although I had clearly driven over him, he was seated in the road, unharmed, cradling something in his arms. When I drew closer, he looked up and smiled.
“Here,” he said, and held out his hands.
I glanced down curiously. At first, it was too dark to see what he was handing me, so I moved to the side to allow some light to illuminate the object. When it came into view, I recoiled in horror when I saw that it was Camille Rainey’s head on a stick.
“Shit!” I bolted upright in bed and stared wildly around. My heart was racing. I was covered in sweat. I squinted as I probed the darkness, trying to orient myself. Relief flooded over me as I realized I was at home in bed, and Camille was fine.
I leaned toward Susan, worried that I’d disturbed her sleep, but she hadn’t stirred. Shaken by my nightmare, I slipped out of bed and padded lightly downstairs. I stumbled toward the kitchen in the dark and grabbed a glass. I filled it straight from the tap and gulped it down. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and flipped on the light under the counter. Achilles, who had been sleeping under the table, stood and stretched. His back rubbed against the table as he sauntered out from under it.
“Why aren’t you sleeping on your bed?” I asked idly. “It was expensive. You should use it.”
Sensing something was wrong with me, he walked over and nudged my hand. I rubbed his head and took a few cleansing breaths. I filled another glass of water and stood there until my heart had slowed to a normal rhythm.
Taking my glass with me, I walked to the living room and dropped to the sofa. Achilles stretched out across my feet and rested his chin in his outstretched paws. His fur was warm against my flesh.
I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. I began flipping through the channels. It was almost three in the morning and there wasn’t much worth watching. I remembered my mom saying she had recorded the news from Wednesday. I had begun to watch it, but never finished. I accessed our recordings. There were dozens of television shows in the listings and I’d never heard of any of them. I clicked on a few of them and cringed each time I saw singing animals or talking cars.
“What in the hell are kids watching these days?”
Achilles’ ears perked up at the sound of my voice, but he didn’t lift his head.
I continued scrolling through the recordings until I found the news from Wednesday. I pressed the OK button and settled back to watch the program.
“Laura Cavanaugh is in Mechant Loup now,” said an anchor from a local Fox affiliate. “What can you tell us, Laura?”
“I’m here at the Mechant Loup Boat Dock, where something evil is lurking in the dark waters of the bayous that snake through this swampy paradise.” The blonde reporter, who I recognized from other incidents that had taken place down here, turned and pointed toward the busy pier. “As you can see, this is a very active scene as law enforcement and volunteers frantically search the lakes for more victims. So far, three are confirmed dead, and the circumstances surrounding their deaths remain a mystery.”
“What?” I said aloud. “For the last time, there weren’t three victims. Where in the hell are they getting this?”
The camera moved from the bustling activity and back to the reporter, who brushed several strands of blonde hair from her face.
“According to a source close to the investigation, some kind of underwater creature is preying on unsuspecting visitors. I’m told authorities have no idea what is behind the attacks on tourists, but they believe it’s no longer safe for anyone to be in the water and they are contemplating a ban on all water sports until they bring a closure to this mystery. Shelly, back to you.”
The anchor, a young woman with dark hair and eyes, said, “Laura, this sounds like the beginnings of a horror movie. Do authorities have any leads at all?”
“As you might imagine, local leaders aren’t saying much as they try to get a handle on what’s going on in their jurisdiction, but citizens are definitely on edge and my source tells me some people believe a mythical swamp creature is preying on tourists who don’t respect the land. My source also tells me that the mayor’s office is thinking about advising tourists to stay away until this case is resolved.”
“They’re thinking about shutting down the town?”
“That’s what my source is saying. A full quarantine would be the only way to keep people out of the water.”
I shut off the television and sank into the cushions of the sofa. Who in the hell could’ve fed this information to the reporter? I now understood why Pauline was angry. Someone was undermining our investigation.
I paused for a second, considering something. Cavanaugh had reported there being three drowning victims at noon, and we hadn’t even found Camille by that time. How would anyone know there were three bodies at that time? Had they simply assumed three people had drowned?
A cold chill suddenly reverberated over me as I remembered Camille saying she had pretended to be dead so the creature or person would lose interest in her.
“Our suspect thought he had killed Camille!” I blurted out loud, jumping to my feet and disturbing Achilles’ slumber. “He assumed we would find Camille’s body, so he leaked info about the three victims to the media. He’s the source—the killer called the reporter!”
I suddenly realized that if I could prove Gabe Burke was Cavanaugh’s source, then we could prove he was the killer and this case would be closed.
Thinking quickly, I walked to our home office and pulled out my laptop. I returned to the sofa and fired it up. Once I’d accessed the website of the local Fox station, I searched until I found Laura Cavanaugh’s contact information. There was an email address, a desk number, and a cell number.
I glanced at the time displayed on the bottom corner of my laptop. It wasn’t even three o’clock yet. I knew it would be rude to call at this time of the morning, but I needed to know, and I needed to know now.
I glanced over at Achilles and shrugged. Muttering an apology, I dialed her cell phone number and waited.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello, how may I help you?” asked a tired voice. The female who answered had done so on the fourth ring. I had almost hung up on the third, but decided to let it ring until the voicemail picked up so I could leave a message.
“Is this Laura Cavanaugh,” I asked, “from the local Fox 8 station in the La Mort area?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Clint Wolf. I’m the—”
“I know who you are,” she said quickly, interrupting me. She seemed wide awake now. “You’re the chief of detectives for the Mechant Loup Police Department. Before that, you were the Chief of Police before taking a year off to work as a swamp tour guide. You also worked as a detective for the City of La Mort before that. I’ve followed your career very carefully, beginning when your wife and daughter were—”
“I get it,” I said, a little rougher than I’d intended. “You know me. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just really good to hear from you. I know you don’t know this, but I was in journalism school when your wife and daughter were murdered following the La Mort Riots. For my Master’s project, I wrote a paper titled, When the Messenger Becomes the Message: The Media’s Role in the La Mort Riots. I believe the media’s false portrayal of police officers helped contribute
to the destruction and chaos in the city—and that includes what happened to your beautiful family.”
I shifted on the sofa and stared down at Achilles. He was watching me with great curiosity. I didn’t know how to respond to what she’d said, so I simply said nothing.
“Anyway, although I’ve covered a number of stories in and around Mechant Loup, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you or interviewing you.” She paused, but still, I said nothing. “So, what can I do for you, Detective Wolf? I know you didn’t call at three in the morning just to chat.”
“No, ma’am…I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. “Um, I need to ask you some questions about your story from Wednesday at noon.”
“Oh? Did I report something that was inaccurate? If I did, I’m truly sorry, but it is kind of hard to report the facts when your mayor or chief won’t talk to me.” She paused slightly before continuing. “If you want to give me an interview, I’d be very happy to correct the record.”
“No, ma’am, what we say here has to stay here.” Although she couldn’t see me, I was shaking my head. “We can’t go on the record with any of this, do you understand?”
“I don’t know…” She was hesitant. “You’re calling at three in the morning because you want me to answer your questions, but you won’t answer any of mine? That doesn’t seem fair.”
I knew I was facing an uphill battle. Journalists would rather go to jail than reveal a source, and I had a good feeling she would never tell me who had provided the information for her story. Still, I had to try. “Look, you’re right, I called you for information, so it’s only fair that I entertain any questions you might have. I’ll cooperate with you to the extent that I’m allowed, if you’ll show me the same courtesy. Deal?”
“That sounds reasonable. How will this work? Will it be one for one—you get one question and I get one question? Or did you have something else in mind?”
“Why don’t we just talk?” I moved the phone to my left hand and ear and opened a new Word document. With my fingers poised over the keyboard, I asked my first question. “Where’d you get the information about there being three drowning victims?”
“A confidential source. Why—was that incorrect?”
“Can you keep it off the record? At least until this case is solved?”
“How long will that take?”
“You’ve been doing this long enough to know I can’t answer that with any degree of certainty. I hope to solve it right now—with your help—but I can’t say for sure if that’ll happen.”
“Hmm, you’re thinking it was the killer who called me, aren’t you?”
She was bright, that was for sure.
“I am.”
“Okay, I’ll keep it quiet,” she said. “Was I wrong about the death count?”
“Yes, you were. There were only two drowning victims—Chrissy Graves and Frank Jones. Your story ran at noon. Right about that time, I was on the lake with Officer Takecia Gayle searching for a missing girl by the name of Camille—her last name’s not important at the moment. Anyway, we found Camille almost two hours after your live broadcast. The person who called you was either mistaken about how many bodies we’d found, or he said three because he thought he had drowned three people. Only, he was mistaken, because his third victim pretended to be dead.”
“Wait a minute—you have information that a man is responsible for drowning these people? These were homicides and not accidents or animal attacks?”
“We’re off the record, right?”
“Sure.”
“Sure what?”
“Sure, we’re off the record.” She said it begrudgingly.
“Yes, these are homicides. The one victim who survived the attack told me the only reason she’s alive today is because she played dead. She said she initially thought an alligator had grabbed her and was pulling her under. She’d heard that the best way to get an alligator to discontinue its attack was to play dead.” I paused to take a breath. “The only reason the killer thought there were three drowning victims was because Camille fooled him into thinking she was dead. No one else would’ve thought to say three.”
CHAPTER 34
Laura was silent for a long moment, and I knew she was taking it all in. “But there’s also a chance my source could simply be mistaken, right? After all, you were looking for a third person, so maybe my source assumed a third person had drowned.”
“Your source said that three people were confirmed dead—not that we were searching for another person or that three people were possibly dead.” I paused and decided to prompt her a little. “Unless you misheard him. Maybe he said two and you reported three. Maybe it was your mistake.”
“Not a chance,” she said with great confidence. “I record all of my conversations, so there’s never a chance of a mistake.”
“Are you recording this conversation now?”
She hesitated, and I knew she was.
“It’s okay,” I said. “But getting back to your source, I need to know who he is, as he might be my suspect.”
“First of all, I won’t confirm or deny the gender of my source. Secondly, as a rule, I never give up my sources. I rely heavily on informants—much like law enforcement officers do—and if I started giving them up, people would stop talking to me. I can’t be effective at my job without sources.”
“What if your source is responsible for multiple murders and at least one attempted murder? You wouldn’t cover up for a murderer, would you?”
She paused for a long moment and I thought I was getting somewhere. However, when she spoke, it was clear she wouldn’t budge.
“Unless you show me direct evidence that proves one of my sources is involved in a crime, I won’t give up his or her name. I’m sorry.”
I placed my laptop on the sofa cushion beside me. “Look, Laura, if I give you a name, will you tell me if he’s your source?”
“I can’t reveal my source.”
“Well, if I give you the name of my suspect and it’s not your source will you at least let me know I’ve got the wrong guy?”
She laughed. “Nice try, but if I don’t say you’ve got the wrong person then you’ll know it’s my source.”
I sighed and figured I’d just tell her the name and see what would happen. “My suspect’s name is Gabe Burke.”
“Oh, yeah, you’ve got the wrong guy. That’s not my source.”
Now I was really worried. “Gabe’s not the guy who called you?”
“No.”
I stood and began walking around the living room. “Then someone had to be working with him, because the person who called you had to be involved.”
“How do you know my source isn’t an officer of the law?”
“Because all of the officers working the case knew we only had two victims.” I stopped walking and grunted. “Of course, he wouldn’t give his real name. If I killed someone and called a reporter, I would definitely use a fake name.”
“It is possible,” she acknowledged. “It’s happened on more than one occasion.”
I walked to my office and dug around for the work notebook I was using for this case. I thumbed through it and stopped when I found Gabe’s phone number. I called it out to Laura. “Is this the number that called you?”
She was quiet for about a minute and I could hear her fumbling with her phone. When she spoke again, she said, “Nope, that’s not it.”
I dropped the notebook to the table and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the back of the chair. “What will it take for you to reveal your source?”
“I won’t.”
“What if I promise to keep the information to myself and not use it in my investigation?”
“How will you do that?”
“I simply won’t use it.”
“Then what’s the point in telling you?”
“It’ll let me know if I’m on the right track or not,” I explained. “If I know in what direction to go with my investigation, then I’ll k
now where to look for evidence.”
“I’m really sorry, Detective Wolf, but I’d feel like I was betraying my oath.”
“What if I was able to obtain a court order compelling you to give up his name?”
“You could put me in jail and I still wouldn’t give it up.”
“Damn, I respect your commitment to the job,” I said in admiration. “You don’t have to worry about me getting a court order, because I don’t believe you should be compelled to violate your convictions.”
“I appreciate that, because it has been done to me before. I had to spend two nights in jail before my lawyer got the judge’s order of contempt reversed.”
“What if it wouldn’t have been overturned?”
“Then I’d still be in jail, because I would’ve never given up the name.”
I scowled. While she was possibly hindering me from moving forward in my investigation, I definitely respected her determination and loyalty to her job. It was a rare quality these days. I stared idly at the notepad on my desk, wondering if there was any way we could come to some sort of agreement. I had been in that position for a long moment before it registered.
“Hey, did your source call from 555-0666?”
Laura Cavanaugh might’ve been a lot of things—intelligent, shrewd, determined, and loyal—but there was one thing she wasn’t, and that was a liar. After letting out a subtle gasp, she tried to deny that 555-0666 was the number from which her source had called. The more she tried to deny it, the more I knew I’d hit the jackpot.
She wouldn’t give an inch, so I thanked her and ended the call. I sat on the sofa for a long moment, pondering this new information. If I was right, then Gabe wasn’t our killer. If that was true, then people were definitely still at risk. We had to keep everyone out of the lake.
