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Authors: Greg Herren
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eyes. The deputies hadn’t let us ride together to the station, putting us into separate cruisers, and another deputy drove Mom’s car. When the Tangipahoa Parish sheriff’s office finished with us and had let us go, Mom seemed completely out of it as we walked out to the car. The only thing she’d said was when she told me she didn’t trust herself to drive. This worried me, given my reputation in the family as a lousy driver. No one ever let me drive if they could possibly help it.
She hadn’t spoken in the car during the drive either. She just closed her eyes and rested her head on the passenger window. I kept glancing over at her to make sure she was okay. She seemed paler than usual.
It was the first time she’d seemed her age to me. Her youthful spark was gone.
But to be fair, it had been a rough day. Mom had never come across a dead body before, let alone the corpse of a childhood friend, and as the car hurtled through the dark Louisiana night, I’d wondered if she was going to be all right.
I’d been through an emotional wringer myself since we opened the door to the cabin’s screened-in porch and saw the body lying there.
It seemed like we stood there forever, like time had somehow come to a stop. We stood there, unable to move, just staring at the body. Neither one of us said anything. There was no sound other than the humming of cicadas and an occasional splash from the bayou directly behind the cabin.
The woman had been shot in the back, and I could see at least two bullet holes in her red-and-black sleeveless flannel blouse. She had a flip-flop on her right foot, but her left foot was bare. The other flip-flop was a few feet from where she lay. The force of the bullet had probably carried her forward a few feet before she’d gone down face-first on the warped wood. Her gray shoulder-length hair was fanned out around her head. Bluish-green bottle flies were circling her body, landing on her or in the sticky puddle of blood spreading around her torso before taking flight again. The air was thick with humidity, so it would probably take the blood longer to dry. I calculated she’d been dead somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four hours. She was wearing jeans shorts and hadn’t shaved her legs in a while.
“Is it Veronica, Mom?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.
Mom moved beside me. I heard the screen door slam shut behind her and then I heard her throwing up in the yard.
I didn’t know what to do—other than the standard don’t touch anything, it’s a crime scene.
I took a deep breath of the thick, fetid air. Stay in control, Scotty, don’t get sick yourself ,I thought, fighting against the gorge rising in my stomach. I took another deep breath and focused. Be professional, Scotty, it’s just another case. What do you see?
I opened my eyes and switched into investigator mode, making mental notes.
I could tell she’d been trying to escape her killer—that was apparent from the position of the body. She’d almost managed to reach the corner where the screen porch turned at a ninety-degree angle to continue around the side of the cabin when she’d been shot. The screen door hadn’t been latched, and I turned my head to look out at the dirt driveway through the screen. There were any number of tire tracks out there in the dirt—I’d have to leave all of that to the cops.
It stood to reason that someone had driven up, I realized. She’d probably been inside the cabin, waiting for someone. A car had pulled in, and she’d come outside to see who it was. The killer had come onto the porch—so it was most likely someone she knew. She hadn’t been nervous at first—but then the killer had pulled a gun and she’d tried to get away. I narrowed my eyes, turning around and taking it all in. Why didn’t she try to get into the house? Wouldn’t that have made the most sense? Why did she try to run around to the side porch?
I stepped toward the front door of the cabin. It was
She hadn’t spoken in the car during the drive either. She just closed her eyes and rested her head on the passenger window. I kept glancing over at her to make sure she was okay. She seemed paler than usual.
It was the first time she’d seemed her age to me. Her youthful spark was gone.
But to be fair, it had been a rough day. Mom had never come across a dead body before, let alone the corpse of a childhood friend, and as the car hurtled through the dark Louisiana night, I’d wondered if she was going to be all right.
I’d been through an emotional wringer myself since we opened the door to the cabin’s screened-in porch and saw the body lying there.
It seemed like we stood there forever, like time had somehow come to a stop. We stood there, unable to move, just staring at the body. Neither one of us said anything. There was no sound other than the humming of cicadas and an occasional splash from the bayou directly behind the cabin.
The woman had been shot in the back, and I could see at least two bullet holes in her red-and-black sleeveless flannel blouse. She had a flip-flop on her right foot, but her left foot was bare. The other flip-flop was a few feet from where she lay. The force of the bullet had probably carried her forward a few feet before she’d gone down face-first on the warped wood. Her gray shoulder-length hair was fanned out around her head. Bluish-green bottle flies were circling her body, landing on her or in the sticky puddle of blood spreading around her torso before taking flight again. The air was thick with humidity, so it would probably take the blood longer to dry. I calculated she’d been dead somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four hours. She was wearing jeans shorts and hadn’t shaved her legs in a while.
“Is it Veronica, Mom?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.
Mom moved beside me. I heard the screen door slam shut behind her and then I heard her throwing up in the yard.
I didn’t know what to do—other than the standard don’t touch anything, it’s a crime scene.
I took a deep breath of the thick, fetid air. Stay in control, Scotty, don’t get sick yourself ,I thought, fighting against the gorge rising in my stomach. I took another deep breath and focused. Be professional, Scotty, it’s just another case. What do you see?
I opened my eyes and switched into investigator mode, making mental notes.
I could tell she’d been trying to escape her killer—that was apparent from the position of the body. She’d almost managed to reach the corner where the screen porch turned at a ninety-degree angle to continue around the side of the cabin when she’d been shot. The screen door hadn’t been latched, and I turned my head to look out at the dirt driveway through the screen. There were any number of tire tracks out there in the dirt—I’d have to leave all of that to the cops.
It stood to reason that someone had driven up, I realized. She’d probably been inside the cabin, waiting for someone. A car had pulled in, and she’d come outside to see who it was. The killer had come onto the porch—so it was most likely someone she knew. She hadn’t been nervous at first—but then the killer had pulled a gun and she’d tried to get away. I narrowed my eyes, turning around and taking it all in. Why didn’t she try to get into the house? Wouldn’t that have made the most sense? Why did she try to run around to the side porch?
I stepped toward the front door of the cabin. It was
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