“Because of the time of death?”

  I nodded. “If she came straight home after buying the beer, she would’ve had enough time to bring the groceries inside before being attacked. The killer most likely knocked on the back door and she answered, at which point she was attacked. They fought to here, where she was finished off.”

  “But how can you be so sure it wasn’t Nikia?”

  “Susan and I were here a little after four-thirty. He appeared out of the woods just before five o’clock.” I shook my head. “He didn’t have enough time to kill her, run through the woods, get changed, and then reappear all calm and clean. And he certainly didn’t clean off inside the trailer, because we didn’t find any evidence of that in any of the sinks or the bathtub—they were bone dry. I have to believe what he told Susan about rendezvousing with his ex-wife.”

  Mallory pondered this while holding a forensic ruler against each of the holes in the victim’s shirt so I could take close-up photographs.

  “If Jake didn’t kill Allie, and Nikia didn’t kill Cassandra,” she finally said, “then the same person might’ve killed both women—but who and why? What’s the connection between them?”

  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know. Mallory lifted Cassandra’s shirt to her shoulders and I photographed the wounds to her back. A thought had come to mind and I hesitated, not wanting to say what I was thinking. After taking the first picture, I prepared for the next one while asking, in a casual voice, if it was possible she had missed something at the scene of Allie’s murder.

  “No way.” Her response was quick and certain. “We covered every inch of that house. All legible prints, drops of blood, strands of hair, and DNA swabs came back to either Jake or Allie. All of the evidence at the scene supports a case against Jake and no one else.” She moved the forensic ruler to the next wound on Cassandra’s back, and indicated with her head toward the scene that surrounded us. “If all of the evidence at this scene points to Nikia, then we’re definitely dealing with someone who knows a little about crime scene investigations.”

  I stopped what I was doing and straightened. “Are you saying a cop did this?”

  She glanced up at me. “A cop…or someone who watches a lot of Dateline.”

  I grunted. “I love that show, but watching Dateline alone doesn’t make you a crime scene expert.”

  I returned to the task at hand, but an uneasy feeling had formed in the pit of my stomach and it began to grow larger with each passing second. I couldn’t think of a single reason why any cop would target the victims of domestic violence for murder, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that this was the work of a killer who possessed some knowledge of—or experience in—homicide investigations. How else would we explain someone manipulating the evidence at the scene so effectively?

  “This could be the work of a serial killer,” Mallory suddenly opined. “Someone who’s been going around the country killing women. That would explain them knowing their way around a crime scene and having the skills to effectively point the evidence at the innocent husband.”

  I stopped what I was doing once again and scowled. “If you think about it, it’s not really hard to make it look like the husband did it. After all, the husband lives here, so all you’d have to do is watch the house, wait for him to leave, and then use a weapon that’s already here.” I slung the camera over my shoulder and watched as Mallory lowered Cassandra’s shirt and straightened.

  “If the workings of a serial killer are never linked together and the individual murders are pinned on separate individuals,” I said, “the killer could operate under the radar for years.”

  “And who better to pin the murders on than husbands who beat their wives?” Mallory’s facemask puffed out with each word she spoke. “Everyone knows the husband is usually the first person the police will suspect when a wife is murdered, and that suspicion goes even higher when there are incidents of domestic violence in the home.”

  “That’s why the killer is using weapons from the scene—things that will more likely than not contain the husband’s fingerprints or DNA.” I was growing more certain as we talked about it, feeling we were definitely getting somewhere. “Since you didn’t find unknown prints or DNA at Allie’s scene, the killer has to be wearing gloves, a hair net, and possibly even Tyvek suits.”

  Mallory glanced down at our outfits. “So, basically, the killer could look like you or me.”

  It was a sobering thought, but it was very possible.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was almost eight o’clock and the sun was deep into its westward slide when Mallory and I had finished processing the interior crime scene. We had recovered a dozen legible prints, tons of DNA swabs, and several fibers, all of which were packaged and secured in Mallory’s cruiser for her to transport to the crime lab later.

  We then searched the outdoor property and vehicle belonging to Nikia and Cassandra Billiot, but we didn’t find anything of evidentiary value. Next, we turned to the narrow pathway that cut through the woods. Armed with spotlights and crime scene kits, we began making our way inch-by-inch through the “cut,” as Nikia had described it to Susan.

  Earlier, while we had been helping the coroner’s investigator load Cassandra’s body in the wagon, Susan had called to say Nikia confirmed that the screwdriver buried in Cassandra’s chest belonged to him.

  “He swears up and down he didn’t kill his wife,” Susan had said before hanging up, “and I believe him.”

  That made three of us, but neither of us knew who could’ve killed Cassandra.

  The path looked more like an abandoned animal trail, and the going was very slow, thanks to the dark shadows created by the thick umbrella of leaves above us. We proceeded forward by searching several inches of the bare dirt at a time, and then we would branch outward about three yards into the underbrush, searching every leaf and twig all the way down to the earth below.

  We had traveled about a hundred yards along the path when I caught sight of something white and red sticking out from under a nearby bush. I turned my light in that direction and cocked my head to the side.

  “Would you look at that?” I studied the object that was tucked under the bush. “How convenient is it to find a clown mask beside the same trail that Nikia accessed? I’m going to bet now that it contains traces of his DNA.”

  “Do you think the killer wore it?”

  “I’d bet the farm on it.”

  Mallory grounded her crime scene box and retrieved an evidence bag from inside. After documenting our finding, we recovered it and secured it in her box, then continued our search.

  It was almost eleven o’clock by the time we reached the end of the path. We found Baylor Rice leaning against the front grill of his cruiser. Although he was young—just twenty-five—he was patient beyond his years.

  “Everything’s been quiet out here,” he said when Mallory and I appeared from out of the bush and stepped into the glow of a nearby streetlight. “I haven’t seen a vehicle in at least two hours. The only traffic through here was a young boy on a bicycle. He seemed to know a lot about this little cut-through in the woods, so I asked if he’d seen anything suspicious in the area. He said he hadn’t seen anything around here, but he heard there had been a murder on this side of town and he thinks he knows where the body was dumped.”

  “Oh, really?” I grounded my gear near Baylor’s front bumper. “What makes him think a body was dumped?”

  “He said he was fishing along the bayou side earlier and thinks he saw what looked like a bloody glove on a lily pad, so he believes someone was murdered and the body dumped in that area.” Baylor indicated with his head toward the west. “He said he was fishing off of East Main in the area of Camp Street, so I thought it might be worth looking at.”

  “What’s his name and where can we find him”—I glanced down at my phone—“at this time of night?”

  “He said his name was Ted—like the cursing bear in the movie—and he lives with his mom near the bridge off of East Main.” Baylor handed me his notepad. “This is the address and his mom’s phone number.”

  I hated to bother a kid on a school night, but this was important. I turned to Mallory. “Should we disturb the kid and his mom?”

  “Absolutely.” She pointed to the sky. “They give rain first thing in the morning, so if there’s a glove hanging onto a lily pad, we need to get to it as soon as possible.”

  Mallory was right. It was warm for November, but a cold front was scheduled to blow through in the early morning hours, and with it came a promise of colder temperatures. As for me, I was going to believe it when I saw it. The last “cold” front had reduced the temperature from eighty-five to eighty-three…but I wasn’t complaining. I hated the cold weather.

  I turned to Baylor and asked for a ride to our cruisers.

  “Sure.”

  Once we’d loaded our gear, Baylor drove us around to Cassandra’s house, where we had secured the residence and stapled crime scene tape across the doors. Mallory said she’d follow me and I told Baylor he could turn in for the night.

  “If it’s all the same,” he said, “I’d like to accompany you guys to the bayou. I’d like to see if Ted the Cursing Bear is telling the truth.”

  I paused, cocked my head to the side. “Did the kid really call himself Ted the Cursing Bear?”

  “Yep.” Baylor’s face broke out in a boyish grin. “He said his dad used to call him that before his mom divorced him.”

  I shook my head, smiling as I did so, and got into my Tahoe. I called Susan to let her know what was going on.

  “Nikia’s sleeping in the interview room,” she said when I was done talking. “Last I checked, he was curled up in a little ball under the desk covered with a prison blanket. I offered to let him sleep in a cell, but he said it would give him flashbacks of the night you cracked his sternum.”

  “Does he have a place to stay for the night?”

  Susan grunted. “He said his ex-wife offered to let him stay at her place.”

  “Yeah, well, we need to interview her.” Although she couldn’t see me, I nodded as I pulled into the tiny shell driveway behind Baylor. “While I’m pretty convinced Nikia didn’t kill Cassandra, we still need to verify his story.”

  “I can get it done if you like.”

  “Please.” I shoved the gearshift in park. “Now I need to interview Ted the Vulgar Bear—or whatever he calls himself.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A dull yellow glow was emitting from the windows on the front wall of Ted the Cursing Bear’s house. I joined Mallory and Baylor on the front steps. A television droned from inside the tiny residence.

  “I guess someone’s awake.” I knocked on the siding.

  Baylor stood to the right side of the door and I stood to the left, with Mallory beside me. The television suddenly went quiet. Yep, someone was definitely awake. I knocked again and light footsteps padded toward the door. The thin towel that served as a curtain over the door window was pushed aside and a young woman’s face appeared in the opening. I pointed down toward the badge on my belt and her eyes widened.

  After some clicking noises, the door opened a crack and the woman peered outside. “Is there something wrong?” Her voice was a bit raspy, as though she smoked.

  “No ma’am,” I said quickly. “And I’m sorry for interrupting you so late on a school night, but we’re investigating a case and your son—I believe his name is Ted—might be able to help us.”

  “Ted?” The door opened wider. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, not at all.” I shot my thumb toward the bayou. “He told one of our officers he found a bloody glove on the bayou side, and we needed him to show us where it was before the rains came.”

  The woman, who wore faded jeans and a wrinkled, oversized sweatshirt, relaxed a bit. “Sure, let me wake him up.”

  I nodded in Baylor’s direction while we waited. “Since you’ve already established a rapport with the little man, why don’t you take the lead?”

  That seemed to please Baylor, who nodded and tried to stifle a grin.

  When Ted’s mother reappeared, she was running her fingers through red hair that had obviously come from a bottle, and she had changed into a nicer top.

  “He’s coming,” she said.

  Within seconds, Ted rumbled through the house like a wrecking ball. Through the crack in the door, I saw him crash into the corner of an aged sofa, but he bounced off and kept coming. He stopped short when he saw me standing there with a badge and gun.

  “What’s going on, Mom? What did I do?”

  “Nothing.” The woman patted his head. “Like I said, they just need to talk to you about something you found.”

  Baylor stepped forward and Ted sighed audibly when he saw the young officer.

  “Mr. Baylor!” He stepped forward and fist-bumped Baylor. “Is this about that murder scene I solved?”

  “It sure is, little man.” Baylor shot a thumb toward the bayou. “Didn’t you say it was along the bank across the street?”

  “Yes sir.” Ted pointed past where we stood. “It’s to the right of where Camp Street comes out.”

  “Can you show us?”

  Ted turned quickly toward his mom. “Can I?”

  She smiled, proud of her boy. “Yes, of course. Just get some shoes on.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t but me, just do it.”

  Pouting and mumbling something about why she always made him wear shoes, Ted disappeared into the house. He returned a few moments later wearing rubber boots. His face lightened up once he was outside and leading our party across East Main and into the grassy area along Bayou Tail. His mouth was running a mile a minute as he described how he had come up on what he called the “murder scene.”

  “I was fishing closer to the bridge and something big took my hook and started heading this way”—he pointed toward the north—“so I ran along the bayou side to keep up, because I had a five-pound test on my pole and I didn’t want it to break. When I got right around here, that’s when the fish started getting tired and I tried to reel it in.” He stopped talking and, in the dim glow from the street lights, I could see him frowning. “My line broke but I could see my cork in the lily pads and I thought the fish might still be on it, so I started wading in the water to get to it. That’s when I saw the murder scene.”

  Ted stopped walking when we reached a spot in the grass where a net was on the ground.

  “Ted, I told you to keep your stuff picked up,” his mother admonished. “It’s expensive to keep replacing nets and line and—”

  “But I wanted to remember where I lost the big fish.” Ted tugged on Baylor’s arm and pointed toward a clump of lily pads. “It’s over there.”

  The wind had picked up and I could feel the moisture in the air. I glanced up and saw dark clouds moving across the sky, blinking out the moon and stars as they passed.

  Baylor had pulled a flashlight from his gun belt and was scanning the surface of the lily pads, searching for the glove. I followed the beam of light with my eyes and sucked in my breath when one lily pad was illuminated. There—resting precariously on the edge of the pad—was a blue latex glove, and it appeared to be covered in dried blood.

  “That’s it!” Ted exclaimed. “That’s where the murdered body was dumped.”

  I stifled a chuckle at his innocence while studying the path to the glove. It was about twenty-five feet from the bank. While we might be able to find a pole long enough to reach the lily pad, it would be too risky to try and drag it closer to the bank. The mere act of touching the pad could cause the glove to slip into the water and we might lose it forever. Another option was to call Melvin to bring a boat, but that would cause a wake and might also capsize the lily pad. Nope, there was only one way to do this.

  “Okay, who’s going in?” I asked. When there were no volunteers, I bent to remove my boots. “I guess it’s up to the old man to save the day.”

  “I’ll do it!” Ted said. “I go in there all the time—”

  Ted quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and turned slowly toward his mother, whose hands were now on her hips as she glared at him.

  “I thought I told you to stay out of that water?”

  “Yes ma’am,” was all he said.

  Once my boots, socks, phone, and pistol were on the bank and my pant legs rolled up to my knees, I took a careful step into the warm water with my left foot. I wasn’t sure how deep it was along the edge, so I held onto the grassy bank with my hands while I continued to lower my leg. The water had almost reached my knee when my foot made contact with the mushy bottom. Sloppy mud squirted up between my toes and I smiled inwardly, remembering that familiar feeling.

  I’d been grossed out as a boy the first time I felt mud shooting up between my toes, but I’d grown to love it. It was a symbol of freedom. It meant I was out in the marsh, going where my mom would never dare to tread. There were no rules out in the swamps, no responsibilities, and no mother to tell me what I could or couldn’t do. Ah, those were the days, I thought.

  Once I settled down into the slop and reached firmer footing, I lowered my right leg. Mallory handed me a pair of latex gloves and I pulled them over my hands. I then shifted around to face the clump of lily pads. Baylor held his light on the bloody glove and I began taking painfully slow steps forward, doing my best not to cause waves.

  As I drew closer to the lily pads, the water climbed higher up my legs, and by the time I was within arm’s reach, my entire pants were saturated. The wind was picking up and the lily pads danced in the breeze. I thought I was close enough, so I reached out with my right arm, but I was still a few inches short. I said a silent prayer that the glove would remain perched on its landing pad as a gust of wind rippled the water around me. I took another careful step forward—

 

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