Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher

  Anthony stood with his arms crossed, his control held tight, as he stared down at Ben Fort.

  The guy had bloody scratches and scrapes running along his face and arms, but that wasn’t even close to the amount of damage Anthony wanted to do.

  He’d been aiming that motorcycle at Lauren.

  If the SOB had hurt her…

  Paul came into the interrogation room, swept his gaze over Fort, then raised a brow as he looked back at Anthony.

  “The guy fell off his bike,” Anthony said.

  At his words, Fort jerked his head toward them. “Because you and that DA were in my way! You come to my house, and I didn’t even see no warrant and—”

  “They didn’t need a warrant to come and tell you about your girlfriend’s murder.”

  Fort’s mouth hung open. “Murder?” He gave a rough bark of laughter, one that held an uncertain edge. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  Paul took the seat across from Fort. Anthony was playing by the rules—this time—and letting the detective have a crack at the guy first. But he wasn’t about to leave the room. He would stick close to Fort until he got the answers he wanted.

  Anthony leaned back against the two-way mirror—he knew Lauren was watching on the other side—and waited for his moment.

  If the detective didn’t break the guy, Anthony would.

  Paul opened up a manila file and pushed a crime scene picture toward Fort. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Fort peered forward. “Yeah, man, that’s—” He jumped to his feet even as the color drained from his face. “Fuck! What the fuck happened to Stacy?”

  Anthony moved in an instant, grabbing the guy’s shoulder and shoving him back down in his seat.

  “Stacy is your girlfriend, correct?” Paul asked quietly.

  A rough nod. Fort’s fingers snaked out, edging toward the photo almost helplessly. “Her face…”

  “Stacy Crawford told the marshal here…” Paul slanted a fast glance toward Anthony. “That the two of you were heading out of town last night.”

  “Got a job in Jackson,” he mumbled. His eyes were on the photo. His shoulders slumped. “Her face.”

  Paul’s eyes were on Fort’s face. “Why didn’t you report that your girlfriend was missing?”

  “’Cause she wasn’t!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  “If you were supposed to leave with her—”

  Fort slapped his hand over the picture, covering Stacy’s face. “She sent me a text. Told me that she had to pull an extra shift—wanted the cash since it was her last night. She told me that she would be late gettin’ in.”

  “But she didn’t get in at all.”

  Fort’s breath was coming in fast heaves. “When I got her text, I went out for some beers with friends. I got in and passed out. I’d just woken up when—”

  “When you heard the marshal banging at the door?”

  A nod.

  Now Anthony spoke. “Do you always run when you hear a knock at your door?”

  He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

  “Then I guess today was special, huh?” Paul asked as he pulled the photo from beneath Fort’s hand. “But not so special for her.”

  Did you help the Butcher kill your girlfriend?

  Lauren had watched hundreds of interrogations over the years. She knew all the tricks detectives used in order to get a suspect to confess. She’d seen men crumble in an instant, and she’d seen cold-blooded killers refuse to break after hours of questioning.

  When she’d had Walker in the interrogation room, he hadn’t broken. He’d just sat there, smiling at her the whole time.

  Fort was already sweating. Sometimes, the guilty sweated. They sweated plenty. Their eyes darted around the interrogation room—just like Fort’s were doing. Their fingers tapped on the table, their shoes kept up a steady pounding rhythm on the floor.

  Again, just like Fort.

  Nervousness? Fear? A guilty conscience?

  We’ll find out.

  The door squeaked open behind her. She glanced over and saw a uniformed cop hurry into the room.

  “Ms. Chandler?”

  She waited.

  The guy licked his lips. “The cops on scene were searching Fort’s home…” It had been easy enough to get the right to enter his home after the motorcycle incident. You didn’t get to nearly run down a DA without repercussions. “One of them found a stash of stolen electronics in the back. The serial numbers match a string of recent robberies in his neighborhood.”

  She glanced back at the interrogation room. Anthony and Paul had wanted to know why the guy ran…

  He’d been afraid he was about to get busted. That could explain the nervousness—and the guilty conscience. But was there more?

  “Thank you,” she said as she headed toward the door.

  He raised a hand to stop her. “We also got the report back for the marshal.” Another nervous swipe of his tongue over his lips. “The bike’s tires—they were a match to the ones at the Crawford scene, to the ones we found at Walker’s old cabin.”

  Lauren glanced through the two-way glass. She hadn’t just watched interviews over the years. She understood exactly how to push and bargain with suspects.

  “Thank you,” she told the cop once more, and headed for interrogation.

  My turn.

  “You knew about Stacy Crawford’s ex-boyfriend,” Anthony said as he stared at Fort. “And you knew how desperate she was to get out of town.”

  Fort was sweating. His feet nervously tapped against the cheap linoleum floor. “Stacy hated this town. Hated the way folks always looked at her. Like she was the freak.”

  Fort’s eyes were on the manila folder. The folder with Stacy’s photo.

  “But you wouldn’t leave town with her,” Anthony pointed out. “You made her stay.”

  The guy’s jaw locked. “I had a job here. We were plannin’ to leave—”

  “Your plan was a little too slow,” Paul drawled.

  The door creaked open behind them. Anthony’s gaze shot to the door, to Lauren.

  Still dressed in her hiking clothes, she walked into the small interrogation room with determined steps. Her gaze cut to him, to Paul, then to Fort. “Mr. Fort, do you know who I am?” Lauren asked.

  Fort’s fingers were tapping against the tabletop now. “The DA. I seen your picture in the paper.” Then his lips twisted. “And Stacy fuckin’ hated you, so I heard about you plenty.”

  Her head cocked as she studied him. “Shouldn’t you be more upset?” Curiosity had leaked into her voice. A trick, Anthony was sure of it. Lauren never revealed any emotion she didn’t want revealed, especially during an interrogation or in the courtroom. “I mean, you just found out your girlfriend is dead—that she was tortured and sliced, and you sit here calmly saying she ‘fucking hated’ me.” She shook her head. “That’s not the response I usually get from grieving boyfriends.” Then she walked to Paul’s side.

  Fort’s gaze followed her every move.

  “Detective Voyt here works homicide, but did you know he also used to handle B and Es? He spent several years working burglaries…”

  Fort’s eyelids flickered.

  She leaned over the table toward him. “The cops found your stash of stolen goods, Fort. That’s why you were running from your place, right? You thought you were busted?” She waited a beat. “Guess what? You are.”

  Fort rocked back, nearly falling from his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

  “I’m taking about the laptops, the TVs, the phones—all the little items you had stashed in your bedroom.” She tapped her lower lip with her index finger, as if considering. “Were you trying to make some getaway cash? For the big move to Jackson? Is that why you—”

  “It was Stacy!”

  The guy sure gave up his dead girlfriend fast.

  “She wanted out of this town in the worst way. Ever since she found that damn necklace in her jewelry box. She s
aid we had to leave. Hell, the robberies were all her! She took the stuff!” He raised his hands in the air. “I’m clean, it’s her, and—”

  “Hard to charge a dead woman with theft,” Anthony said. What a piece of work. No grief and all too eager to pin the crimes on Stacy.

  Fort’s head jerked toward him. “It was her. I’m telling you, she freaked when she found the necklace.”

  Lauren was frowning. “Just when did she find the necklace?”

  “Last month. I was with her, we were heading to a party and she pulled out the box, and the freakin’ thing was there.” Another hard shake of his head. “Wasn’t there the week before, I tell you, it wasn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I would have pawned it! I’d been through her box looking already, but nothin’ good was there.” He was back to tapping his fingers. Moving almost constantly. “Not then.”

  Anthony closed in on him. “How long has it been since you got your last fix?”

  Fort flinched.

  “You’re shaking, sweating, your affect is off, and your pupils are dilated.” Anthony had seen plenty of guys like him. Anthony’s eyes noted the blemishes on the man’s arms, on his face—the ones that weren’t hidden by the scratches. “You’re an addict—meth, judging by the marks on your face and arms—and you stole that stuff to feed your habit.”

  “I would’ve pawned that necklace!” Fort snapped. “I’m tellin’ you, it wasn’t there when I looked! It wasn’t!” He looked quickly back at Lauren. “Lady DA, I’m helpin’ you, I’m tellin’ you everything I know.” He licked his lips—another sign of his habit. Dehydration. “Let’s work a deal. Come on…” he wheedled.

  “The motorcycle you were on earlier, that is your bike, isn’t it?” Lauren asked.

  Anthony was surprised the guy hadn’t sold it for drugs.

  “Yeah, it’s mine.”

  Lauren nodded. Her stare touched briefly on Anthony, then she was looking back at Fort. “The tires from that motorcycle were compared to the tracks left at Stacy’s murder scene.”

  Fort’s brow furrowed. “So?”

  “So they were a match.” Her head tilted. “So that bike—your bike—was out there where Stacy was killed.”

  “No! That’s not—”

  “You said you went out with friends.” It was Paul’s turn to go at the guy. Anthony understood the strategy. Fire questions from multiple sources to distract the perp. It worked sometimes. “Who drove? Did you take the bike?”

  “No, my buddy Joe picked me up. Took me to Winders.” He raked a shaking hand over his face. “I left the bike at home. Left it, and it was there when I got back.”

  “You expect us to buy that story?” Paul muttered. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

  Fort’s fists slammed into the table. “It’s the truth!”

  Anthony tensed, taking a step forward. “Settle down.” A snapped order.

  But Fort glared over at him. “Or what? You’ll shove me into the pavement again?”

  I’ll do more than that.

  “No,” Lauren said, her voice calm and quiet. “We’ll just shove you into a cell, and you won’t get out anytime soon. Murder has quite a long sentence.”

  “I didn’t murder nobody! Stacy texted—told me she was workin’ late!”

  Same story. More anger.

  “So I went out with my friends! We got ass drunk, but I never saw Stacy! I never saw her!”

  “That’s a pity,” Lauren whispered. “Because maybe if you had seen her, maybe if you had been there to pick her up, Stacy Crawford would still be alive.”

  Her gaze slid to Voyt. He gave a small nod. Anthony knew they’d be checking the guy’s phone. Would the text be there?

  If it was, would it truly have been from Stacy?

  She hadn’t mentioned anything about working a double shift when they’d talked to her. She’d been too intent on freedom.

  She was free now, just not the way she’d wanted to be.

  Everyone was free in death.

  Lauren headed for the interrogation room door. Anthony followed her, glancing back as Paul continued his questions. He hadn’t been looking to pin Stacy’s murder on Fort, but now, hell, he wasn’t sure what was happening.

  The door closed quietly behind them. “You think he’s telling the truth?” Anthony asked.

  “Yes.” She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “No cell phone was found near Stacy’s body. So either the killer took it, or it was dumped somewhere in the swamp.”

  Yeah, and good luck finding it if it had been dumped. “We need the motorcycle checked for prints,” Anthony said. “If Walker took it, then maybe we can get a print confirmation.” Then Fort’s story would be a little more believable to him.

  Lauren was frowning and he could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “It’s so much for one man to do.”

  His gut clenched. He’d thought the same thing as soon as he realized how easily Walker had vanished from prison.

  “Dr. Hollow—Cadence—is going through the old case files. She thinks we might have missed…someone.”

  A partner, back then? Fuck. He’d been so consumed by Lauren during those days, had he missed another killer, one right in the same damn town?

  I’m just as consumed by her now. That obsession was leading to mistakes.

  To death.

  “He’s working with someone.” Lauren’s voice was definite now. “That person—he must have planted the necklace for Stacy to find. Walker was in prison then, it couldn’t have been him.”

  Their gazes held.

  “Two killers,” Lauren whispered.

  Two killers would bring twice as much carnage to the city.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lauren eased into the ME’s office, her steps quiet. As a rule, she avoided this place whenever possible. The smell, the chill in the air, the bodies stored so carefully…the place made goose bumps rise on her arms.

  But some trips couldn’t be avoided. Sometimes you had to say good-bye.

  She knocked lightly, and Greg Wright opened the door. Greg had been in the ME’s office for just over six months, and he’d proven to be incredibly thorough at his job. Greg was thirty-six, not much for talking, but when it came to the dead, he was a master.

  “You’re here for Karen.” His gaze held a touch of sympathy. “I figured you’d be showing up soon.”

  Lauren took a deep breath and could have sworn she tasted death. “I know she’s being transferred out soon. I just…I wanted to say good-bye.”

  He stepped back, turning to head toward the storage area in the next room. Greg was a good-looking guy, with blond hair that curled slightly. He was called Dr. Death by some of the cops—not an insult, but a compliment because he was so good with the bodies. She didn’t know if he minded the nickname or not. It was hard to tell with Greg.

  He didn’t let much show.

  But then, neither do I.

  Lauren followed him and waited while he pulled out Karen’s body. The sound of the locker opening had her tensing. Then the body was there. Covered in a big, black bag. Greg pulled down the zipper, and the sound of it filled the room.

  Then she was staring at Karen. Lauren swallowed. Karen’s face was so pale. She could see the stitches on Karen’s chest. Karen had been so full of life, so ready to take on the world.

  Now only death waited for her.

  “I was about to call you and Voyt,” Greg said, a hesitant note entering his voice. “I found something else.”

  Her brows rose.

  His gloved fingers pointed to Karen’s throat. To the arching line that sliced across her neck. “There was…something in there.”

  “What?” She couldn’t take her eyes off Karen’s neck. Off that wound. Almost like a smile, one that had been carved into her.

  “It was a small, folded piece of paper.”

  Lauren took an instinctive step back. “That’s not Walker’s MO.” Walker cut. He sliced.
But he didn’t leave messages behind.

  “Maybe it is now.” Greg walked away from the table and picked up a small, sealed bag from his desk. “He left a message for you.”

  Her heart was beating hard enough to shake her whole chest. “What did the note say?” The paper was so small. So tiny. And stained with blood. Karen’s blood. In her throat.

  He lifted the clear bag and she could see the careful letters…

  “It’s beginning,” Greg read.

  Hell. She did not want to deal with this. “He’s not going on a spree in my city.”

  Greg looked steadily at her. “Two victims in Baton Rouge killed within forty-eight hours.” He took a deep sigh. “It sounds like that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

  Lauren’s eyes fell back on the body bag. On Karen.

  “I’ll give you a minute alone with her,” Greg murmured as he backed away.

  Lauren didn’t speak. Instead, she stared at her friend and hated that a monster had stolen Karen’s life away.

  Greg’s footsteps echoed through the chilled room.

  The cold air from the storage area made Lauren’s goose bumps even worse. She swallowed, trying to shove back the lump in her throat. Karen was one of the few people who had gotten past Lauren’s guard. She’d known Lauren’s secrets, and she hadn’t been afraid of them.

  “I’m sorry,” Lauren whispered. It was what she needed to say. This shouldn’t have happened. But I will get him.

  Her gaze slid down Karen’s body. So many injuries. So much incredible rage.

  Her fingers pushed back the bag as she stared at the marks the Butcher had left behind.

  Greg’s footsteps returned. “There are defensive wounds there, on both arms.”

  She could see them. “Karen always was a fighter.”

  “We found Walker’s DNA under her nails. She made sure to leave her mark on him.”

  It hadn’t been enough. “Be very, very thorough with your evidence collection. If there’s any more DNA, anything that could belong to someone other than Walker, I want to know.”

  She glanced up and found Greg’s dark eyes on her. “When the second body gets in,” he told her, “I’ll check to see if—”