All the Devil's Creatures (4 page)

Duchamp raised his hands in a mock defensive hand gesture. “Nor should you. Quite the opposite. We’ve got to get in front of this thing. We’ve got to
frame
the story—”

“We? Robert, you don’t represent this county anymore—”

“I’m here on behalf of the business community. And I’ve been in touch with the district attorney; we’re on the same page here.”

Hargrave.
The son-of-a-bitch DA had been in Duchamp’s hip pocket since he graduated law school. Seastrunk waved an arm for the Congressman to continue.

“There’ll be people in town trying to downplay this. That’s just what the locusts in the press will jump on to destroy the image of this county. Don’t let them—”

“Now I can’t for the life of me in this day and age imagine how anybody could paint this crime as anything other than what it was—”

“Listen to me. You speak for the community—repeat again and again how evil this crime was. Don’t get defensive with the media, and don’t jump out to deny their … insinuations. Let our actions speak for us. Tell your deputies. Y’all have to control this. Don’t let the goddamn media do it. Here’s the story: it was an evil act. And we’re—you and the DA’s office I mean—are going to see that justice is done. End of story.”

Presumptuous little prick.
Though the sheriff could admit that Duchamp possessed some expertise in media relations; for two decades, the Congressman had built his political career on his ability to frame stories, to spin the issues until the truth came back refracted and skewed as if viewed through the dark and verdant bayou waters that flowed through the county.

But maybe Duchamp had learned something from the implosion of his political career, his fall from the Speakership. He seemed to want to manipulate the media with the truth—a straight up acknowledgment of the heinousness of the crime and the stubborn persistence of the retrograde evil that led to it—as if the absence of any argument would bore the media hordes away.

“Robert, my job is to catch the killers. As far as the press goes—”

Duchamp nodded and rose from his seat. “You’re absolutely right, Sheriff. You’re an honest man; watch yourself, and you’ll do fine. But I’ll leave you with one piece of advice—” Seastrunk had risen with Duchamp and now watched the little man lean toward him over the desk, his small hands in fists atop the polished oak. The sheriff could smell Duchamp’s hair tonic. And in that moment, the Congressman’s gray eyes seemed to boil with something like impotent rage. And fear.

“Haul in the usual suspects. You need to make some arrests. Fast.”

•

Jimmy Lee Monroe panicked. He didn’t move or make a sound, but his stringy hair felt slick with cold sweat, his gut sank like lead, and his pulse reverberated in his head like a death metal bass line.

He sat in his truck parked in front of the courthouse, watching the door to the sheriff’s office across the street, knowing the Speaker was in there. He tried to relax by imagining what he would do to the Speaker if the Speaker didn’t pay him—various horrors gleaned from his collection of snuff films on VHS. But in truth he was scared.

Scared of what the Speaker would do to him. Scared of the Shadow People.

He needed to talk to the man; he needed reassurance. But the Speaker had always contacted him, not the other way around, and had been vehement that they should meet as seldom as possible, and always on the Speaker’s terms.

When he saw Duchamp emerge, he took his chance, rushing across the street on foot into the little parking lot behind the annex. He got there just as the Speaker turned the corner into the lot from the opposite direction. For a moment their eyes met, the Speaker’s cold and deadly. Then Jimmy Lee’s boss and benefactor smiled and walked toward him, hand outstretched.

They shook hands beside Duchamp’s Hummer. When the Speaker spoke, his voice was quiet and intense, but his smile never faltered.

“What are you doing here, Jimmy Lee? You know where you’re supposed to be. You’re not getting stupid on me, are you?” The Speaker did not let go of the younger man’s hand as he scanned the parking lot, bounded by the backs of county buildings, two narrow alleyways, and railroad tracks running between the lot and a stand of loblolly pines. They were alone.

Jimmy Lee felt regret hit him like a wave of nausea. Not for what he had done, but for ever doubting the Speaker’s wisdom. He shifted his feet and failed to meet the Speaker’s stare. “No, Speaker, but I know you were talking to the sheriff—”

“Which is what you’re supposed to be doing, right Jimmy Lee?”

“I … I don’t know.”

The Speaker’s grip tightened as his left hand moved to clutch Jimmy Lee’s shoulder, and his voice turned to a snarl as his smile twisted. “Don’t cross me, son.”

The Speaker’s eyes seemed to penetrate his soul. Jimmy Lee trembled.

After a long moment, the Speaker released him and stepped back. “Now, I don’t have a clue what you’ve been up to.”

“But you said …” Jimmy Lee trailed off as his confusion gave way to embarrassment—a common occurrence for him that he often masked with rage or bullying violence. But not with the Speaker. With this great man, he hung his head like a dog.

The Group … the orders came down from the Group. The Speaker was with the Shadow People; they brought me in.

Jimmy Lee began to doubt his own memory, to doubt his own mind. His mother’s voice came to him, laughing:
Shadow People?
Are they for real, Jimmy Lee, or just another of your foolish imaginings?
But his mother died years ago, long before the Speaker took him on. He felt for a moment like he had when his cousin from Waco had come to town and cooked up a batch of ‘shroom tea, when reality twisted into a nightmare world with colors too bright and where everyone—even strangers, even dogs and babies—laughed at him.

“I’m scared, Speaker. Jail … I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what you did. You got some notion; maybe you took it too far. But whatever it was, you need to own up to it. It’s too late for second thoughts. Now, if you play it right, you might get off easy. And come out a rich man.”

“I know, I know.”

“Otherwise, you’re liable to wind up on death row.”

“I gotta go. Gotta think.” He turned without waiting for a response and went around the corner out of the parking lot back toward his truck.

•

The Associated Press picked up the story of Dalia Bordelon’s murder within hours of its running in the local
Tribune
. Sheriff Seastrunk took the call of a stringer out of Tyler.

“No, we don’t have any suspects yet—our investigation’s just started. We’re hopeful forensic evidence collected at the scene will yield clues. But one thing’s for sure—this was a hate crime, pure and simple.”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded all of sixteen. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not going to say specifically what the scene looked like, but it’s fair to say the killer’s stated their motive plainly.”

“Do you fear this crime will divide your county along racial lines?”

“Maybe this old man’s naïve, but we’ve come a long way. I do believe this horrible tragedy will bring our community together, not drive us apart. It’s 2005—nobody condones this kind of evil. Everybody wants the monster, or monsters, who did this brought to justice. So there’s nothing here to divide us.”

He stared at the phone for a minute after the call ended, a little sick to his stomach. Duchamp crossed the sheriff’s mind.
The little prick had a point.
How long before he heard from the
Dallas
Morning News
, the
New York
Times
, the
Washington
Post
? Worse, how long until the cable news loop started?

•

Bobby finished a fast food lunch in his cruiser and walked over to the annex, nervous but confident in his ability to pursue his first murder investigation. Finally, something bigger than a fight at Bubba’s Roadhouse or a domestic dispute. Finally, some real police work.

As he walked into the outer office, he saw the sheriff hang up the phone. Then the old man said, “Come on in, deputy.”

Bobby sat. The sheriff looked pensive for a few seconds, rubbing his lips with a rough, blunt index finger. “Bobby, we’re fixing to head over to visit with Hargrave and the assistant DA he’s putting on this case. It’s important we coordinate with them—we can’t have any ignorant blunders in this investigation. I know we’ll catch these idiots, but we can’t let them walk on a technicality.”

“Yessir.” Bobby thought back to his three years as a criminal justice major at Nacogdoches—before his dad got laid off and his mother got sick and the money ran out. He thought he had a pretty could idea of what a cop could and couldn’t get away with beyond the basics he had memorized for the state peace officers’ exam.

“Now, what have we got?”

Bobby placed a manila folder on the sheriff’s desk and began pulling out papers. “Well, sir, I just talked to forensics. Tire treads at the scene belonged to a mid-sized pickup, like an F-150.”

Seastrunk thumbed through the papers without much interest. Bobby knew the routine—the deputy summarized, then the old man made gut decisions. “That sure doesn’t narrow it down too much to start, but—”

“—it could end up narrowing it down to one vehicle.”

“You got that right. The wear on those treads should be as good for identification as a person’s fingerprints.”

Nodding, still standing up straight across the sheriff’s desk, Bobby did not bring up the holes a good defense lawyer could poke in the so-called sciences of finger printing and tread reading. He remained silent out of deference, but also because he doubted that the white trash who killed Dalia Bordelon would have access to counsel well versed in modern forensics. Or even counsel a notch above competent. Just a court-appointed lawyer pulled from the dregs of the isolated county’s local bar association.

“And do we have the autopsy report, Sheriff?”

“The ol’ doc dropped it off just before lunch, and we talked about it over the blue plate special. It looks like the body was staged. She was stabbed to death hours before she was nailed up.” Seastrunk remained impassive as he spoke, his well-worked hands interlaced on the desk before him. “And they raped her.”

Bobby grimaced. “So she could have been killed anywhere?”

“That’s right, son. We need to find that truck and search it good for trace evidence. And, Bobby, I need you to keep your ears open. Spend a few hours at Bubba’s tonight, see what you hear.”

“Yessir.” Bobby paused, placed a hand on the back of the chair facing his boss’s desk. The sheriff nodded. Sitting, the deputy said, “What about the old codger, Kincaid? Anything to follow up with there? He mentioned the refinery …”

“I’m sure that joker thinks the killing has to do with Ms. Bordelon’s research—or the critters, as he put it. But I met with her boss and that Dallas lawyer they worked for this morning. There’s nothing there …”

Seastrunk had trailed off. Now he tugged at his lip. Bobby said, “What is it, Sheriff?”

Gazing into the middle distance, Seastrunk shook his head with a rhythmic slowness, like a man doubting his own memory. “I just keep thinking about that boy out there on the lake, Kincaid’s grandson. Poor little fella.”

“Kid’s probably going to have some nightmares.”

“Shoot, son, I know that’s right.”

•

Sheriff and deputy mounted the marble steps of the concrete and stucco monolith, its sharp angled gray walls stained black at the top by seven decades of East Texas rains. A stylized carved eagle perched above the ten-foot doors of modernist cut glass. Inside the vaulted lobby, the angled light illuminated a chronological mural in the socialist-realism style of that lost, populist-progressive era. The scenes depicted generations of workers building toward modernity, from Caddo Indians carving dug-out canoes in the cypress swamp; to black men, women and children toiling in the cotton fields; to white roughnecks putting up oil derricks. The sheriff often spoke of his boyhood memories of the previous courthouse, a sinister Victorian-gothic castle, which came down to make room for this imposing gray monument to the 1930’s oil boom. The county had not been immune to the impoverishment of the Great Depression, but here great wealth existed beside the poverty, and the county coffers floated, for a while, on that oil money—all the more so after war broke out in Europe. Seastrunk had told Bobby on more than one occasion,
World War II was won on a sea of East Texas oil
.

A brass elevator took them to the district attorney’s office near the top. DA Ben Hargrave greeted them with moist handshakes, a Baylor University class ring overwhelming his pale narrow fingers. Leaving the jacket of his dark, tailored suit buttoned, he took his seat behind his desk.

“Gentlemen, meet Assistant DA Tasha Carter.”

“Tasha,” the sheriff said, taking her hand. “Now I reckon I met you at your great-uncle’s house years ago, as a teenager in braids.”

The young woman smiled. “A scrawny awkward little thing. I remember, Sheriff. You were campaigning. Uncle Mose has always spoken highly of you.”

Mose Carter.
Bobby recognized the name of the town’s most prominent black minister, a local icon who had marched with Martin Luther King.

Hargrave frowned. “Ms. Carter’s just recently moved home from Houston, where she clerked for a federal judge before spending a few years in private practice. We’re blessed to have her. I’ll be handling the Bordelon case personally, with Tasha second chair.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Seastrunk said.

“Any contact with the press yet, Sheriff?”

Bobby chewed his lip and wagged his foot as listened as Seastrunk recounted his interview; it did not surprise the deputy that the DA would start by talking about the media rather than the status of their investigation—both Seastrunk and Hargrave were politicians first and foremost—but it tried his patience nonetheless.

“Okay,” Hargrave said, folding his soft-looking, pinkish hands before him. “The way this is going to work is, you’ll make an arrest fast. I’ll ask for the maximum penalty—by the way, did they rape her?”