By the Numbers Read online

for him so I’ll keep trying.” She's one persistent bitch. That’s why I keep her around.

  “Any luck on them shoes?”

  “Are you freaking serious? Why didn’t you make that deadwood detective clean them along with your suit?” I'd ignite her fuse. That’s exactly the tenacity I needed for my next request.

  “How about you drop these oxfords off to your favorite detective later tonight?”

  "What do you think I am - a badge bunny?" Though she might not have admitted it, she was kind of a cop groupie. At least where her attraction to Walker was concerned.

  "Tell Walker I said hello." I eyed the female powder keg. "Second thought, tell him to kiss my ass."

  Match placed to fuse.

  -Lucy Bates-

  Can't believe I'm carrying Gill's bloodied shoes in this grocery bag.

  I usually did as told, but if that damn James Walker left me standing under his porch light after one more knock, I'd leave the bag on his step.

  Finally, the door edged open. "Hello, baby. Didn't hear you. Shower." He shadowed himself behind the door as he hurried me inside. He wore only a towel this time, and my eyes flicked over the length of his long form. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  "Not bad for a 55-year old man, Walker." He looked half that. I held the bag out to him. "Gill wants you to have his shoes cleaned too."

  "Take care of me first, then we’ll discuss the shoes."

  As I said, I do as I'm told.

  "What's that jerk up to now?" he asked, helping me up from my knees. I swiped bare knuckles across my raw lips as he pulled me in for another kiss. Kissing for him was lagniappe.

  I told him my boss is worried how he'll solve the case. I think Gill was more afraid of Walker than jealous. Walker was silent, but eyed the clear plastic bag that I'd brought. "Leave 'em on the tile."

  He'd do what I wanted. I knew he was falling for me. Just had to let him have his way first. I set the bag just off the old shag wall-to-wall carpet, below the paneled walls.

  "What size shoe does Gill wear?" he quizzed as he ran his fingers across the knot I’d retied in the towel around his waist.

  "Eleven and a half. I should know - I shop for his lazy butt."

  The towel parted along his muscular thigh as he leaned to inspect the shoes. "Why's the number thirteen written in red on the soles?"

  "His unlucky number. He's obsessed with it." I stepped toward the front door, having delivered both goods and services.

  His hand journeyed from the base of my neck and into my hair. I relaxed, expecting his mouth against mine.

  If he kept it up, I might actually consider staying the night.

  “How obsessed?” Walker’s kind, light grey eyes narrowed to slits.

  A warning bell blasted in the back of my mind. “I don’t know. He’s always talking about it. Doodles it. It's in his personal e-mail address. Tattooed on his dick.” I jerked my head out of his tightening grip.

  “Him too?” Disappointment mixed with disgust flashed in his normally oaken expression.

  “What can I say - I do as I’m told.” I spun away, and left him limp in the threshold.

  - Detective Walker-

 

  “Sheriff Martin. I’m dropping by the dry cleaners before heading up to Bossier City.”

  “Uhh, okay Walker.” He was more concerned about re-election anyway. His cop skills were minimal - like his election chances.

  I dialed the DA's office once I hit the interstate. “District Attorney Gaudet’s office. May I help you?” asked the new receptionist. It didn’t pay to know their names.

  “Detective James Walker calling for Gill.” He hated being called by his first name to the staff. That’s why I did it.

  “Gaudet speaking.” His words more growl than greeting.

  “I dropped your items off at the dry cleaners. Said three days at least.” I wanted to test his patience.

  “Three days?" He spouted, but I throttled back my contempt.

  “Laundry claim ticket number is thirteen.”

 

  - Detective Walker-

 

  After five ignored calls from Lucy and six hours into north Louisiana, I checked in with the Bossier Parish Sheriff’s Office. Their idea of a decent place to perch for the night was slightly better than the fileted-flesh fishing camp I’d collected skulls from two weeks earlier. I was there to investigate, not vacation.

  Detective Albert Robinson was an old timer like me who understood the value of arriving early. There’s clarity in those earliest hours that the length of day disrupts. After three decades each, we both knew how important it was to stay focused.

  We walked out back to whisper while the sun crept up over the low-sloped hills. We eased onto the damp, welded pipes fitted as parking barriers. I liked him. He was a lot like me except he wore his years of service more visibly. His dark grey skin sagged from his jaw and elbows. The faded polo shirt embroidered with his name and Sheriff’s Office star was threadbare over his chest. His experience as a black man in the Deep South's law enforcement had to be a hell of a lot different from mine. It showed, but not in an angry way.

  “Gill Gaudet? Prosecutor?” I threw it out there.

  Neither of us faced each other. Just in case the answers became dangerous.

  “Yep.” He drew from the cup of muddy coffee.

  “Eleven dead bodies. Missing heads?” I dropped the veiled intention - we spoke the same language.

  “Yep.” I saw him nod, then try to shake the memory. Didn’t seem to work. He placed the coffee cup in his trembling left hand as he ground his right palm into the corner of his eye. The skin might thicken, the mind might steel in its suspicions of others - but the hardened hearts of men who've witnessed the violent things people do to each other, always save tenderness for hope.

  “I know, Brother. Never gets easier. Just stay afloat.”

  No telling how many mornings Robinson re-lived that gruesome scene in the name of justice. Where’s the justice in destroying an honest man’s life for the sake of investigating an evil man’s crimes? It’d not been long enough for my mind to toil over my twelve-headed mystery, but it was just a matter of time until my devils called in the chips.

  “Walker. Go to Natchitoches.” He stood and gazed over the field before moving to the back door. “Ask about the ten.” Then he fought with the electronic key code to get back inside the office building.

  He was right; my digging had already turned up information that the Sheriff’s Office down there had handled a multiple murder the year before Robinson's case.

  -D.A. Gaudet-

 

  “Lucy. Come in please.” I still hadn't heard back from Walker, and his crack about my laundry ticket being number thirteen was driving me mad. Worst of all, with Labor Day this weekend, that smart-ass wouldn’t tell me which dry cleaner had my suit.

  “Yes, what may I do for you?” Her flirtatious singsong question rolled from ruby lips.

  Her way of asking aroused me.

  “A favor. Please.” I always threw in the niceness when it involved unofficial duties.

  “Sure thing." The distance disappeared between us as her head vanished below my desk.

  “No. Thank you, but that’s not what I was asking.” I yanked her back up by a fistful of blonde hair to look into her pointed, flushed face.

  “You sure? I’m already here.”

  "Seriously. Not now."

  She struggled against my grip, but I had more important things for her to do.

  “Please call every dry cleaner until you find my suit. If you don’t find it, call the store and buy me a new one but charge it to that a-hole, Walker. You understand?”

  "And what if I don't?"

  "You will. You always do what you're told."

  Detective Walker –

  Since I was about an hour away, and in no real rush to return to the hotbed of re-election season with a fledgling incumbent, I took I-49 S
outh back down to Natchitoches Parish.

  A friend of a friend said I’d be safe connecting with Captain John Torres. An old Narc, he could be trusted with sensitive information.

  My friend also said Torres once had a run in with Gill and Lucy at a bar outside of Goldonna. The town was so small that word lightened its way throughout the parish. It was the undercover agent who took the heat from the Sheriff of course.

  “Torres, thanks for meeting me out here.” The guy was what I expected – overweight, under bathed, reeking of last night’s alcohol and today’s cigarettes.

  “You wired?” He never blinked.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” That bastard almost caught me off guard – first time in thirty years I’d been asked that question.

  “Sorry, gotta ask. Come round here mentioning Gill Gaudet and people get concerned.” His hands slid over the back of my flannel button up, “Old habits, sorry.”

  “You caught ten couple years back?” This wasn’t old-timer Detective Albert Robinson, no need to tread lightly.

  “Not me, but detectives did. I went out for the hell of it. How often you gonna see ten heads cut from the body? Shit was amazing.” He sucked the fresh cigarette near all the way through the filter. Reliving that memory seemed to excite him.

  “How so? If it’s not too painful.” I didn’t like him to start with but liked him even less now. First time for that in thirty years too.

  “Gill pranced in the house dressed like he was heading to church. That place was bloodier than the old slaughter house on Boone Road. Started asking stupid questions - small talk you know? Got upset when he stepped in blood with a fancy pair of leather shoes.” He smashed the butt into the ground with an exaggerated heel.

  “Saddle Oxfords?” I just had to know.

  “What the hell is that? I saw him step into the blood with my own eyes. Don’t know why he’d act like it was an accident. That’s what we argued about months later. Saw him and his whore at a bar. Got up in my face - started yelling I owed him new shoes.”

  “And then?” I knew my body language showed way too much enthusiasm, but my mind ached with questions that needed asking. I knew he wasn’t the one to answer.

  “Then nothing. Not long after the case went cold, he transferred over to Bossier Parish to work for the District Attorney’s office.” I thanked him, but couldn’t shake his hand again – I still had hours to drive and the thought of his filth on me turned my already hollow stomach.

  - Detective Walker -

  I missed Gaudet's surprise announcement at the Labor Day celebration, but wasn't shocked the arrogant bastard was running for Sheriff. Of course, I'd been busy crisscrossing the state interviewing cops about eleven similar cases.

  I knew the DA wanted an update, but I wasn't sure if he actually wanted it solved until after November 4th. My suspicions were quickly confirmed as Gill ramped up the campaign intensity with just weeks until Election Day.

  I'd watched corrupt Louisiana politicians sodomize citizens my whole life, but he made a bold promise. Gill Gaudet was so close to being elected Sheriff of this parish, but I knew the secret behind that promise. My investigation would soon reveal it.

  - D.A. Gaudet –

  "Folks, I want to be your next Sheriff."

  The audience erupted. I was trying as hard as I could to contain my shit-eating grin, but these swamp people love me.

  I stared straight into my opponent’s dull, wandering eyes. "Benji, can you or can't you bring the killers to justice?" Not waiting for his stupid reply, I teased him with the tip, and then jerked the microphone away. He nibbled after it like an infant for the nipple.

  "I promise that upon my election as Sheriff, I'll solve this case within one week." Illiterate bunch of hicks went wild whooping and hollering. Sounded like a Saturday night in LSU's Tiger Stadium.

  - Sheriff Gill Gaudet -

  "…So help me God." I lipped that last part of the Sheriff's oath of office. I’d repeated those words before, and just like every day of catholic school and catechism, I despised being a religious hypocrite.

  I swiped my hand off that Bible, cleared my throat, and turned to the small crowd of strangers in my office. "Thank you for doing the honors, Judge. Now back to business. I’ve got a murder case to solve. Thank you for coming. Lucy will see you out."

  "District Attorney--I mean Sheriff Gaudet. You rang?" She bounced back into my now empty office.

  "You better get the title straight."

  "I'm sorry. It's just that this is your thirteenth different public office over the last twenty years." She spun her right wrist around, dismissing my affliction with that number.

  I didn't intend to hit her that hard. Probably should’ve helped wake her up, but she knew better than to throw that damn number in my face. Besides, I put up with her obsession for all these years. She should respect mine.

  I left her body crumpled on the floor. No time to play doctor. I had a killer to catch.

  - Detective Walker -

  My stomach twisted from the latest information dump. "Sheriff Jones, thanks for giving me access to those records. Had no idea Gill Gaudet started his career in Lafayette Parish that long ago."

  I had Gaudet by the balls but nothing to squeeze. No evidence, no witnesses, no DNA - nothing but twenty years and twelve locations matching his employment to sites of increasing numbers of dead.

  Not to mention - he was now my boss.

  Regardless, I'd make my move as soon as I got back home.

  Her name flashed across the cell's screen marquise again. "Honey, where you been? I need to see you." I liked when Lucy called me that. Too bad it was insincere.

  "I don't have time for a quick visit. Coming back from Lafayette." It was my twelfth follow-up on this overdrawn murder investigation.

  "Walker, it's important. I'm taking a risk, but you need to hear this." Her tone was serious. Desperate.

  “Lucy, are you okay? Is it Gill? Tell me, what’s going on.” My heart had begun to actually race at her words. Wasn’t sure if I’d fallen for her, or was just getting old. Either way, I knew the feelings were one-sided.

  "Baby - can't talk over the phone. You're in jeopardy, James."

  That got my attention. Not the jeopardy part, but the fact that she used my first name.

  "I'll be back in town around nine o'clock tonight."

  "Okay, come by the Sheriff's Office."

  The next incoming call was an unknown number. "Hello? Yes, this is Detective James Walker. Hello, Judge Boudreaux."

  Would this be the nail in Gill's coffin? Waiting on the elder judge’s deliberate conversation was like anticipating the slow, lumbering horse-drawn Mardi Gras floats as a kid.

  "I first hired Gill as a prosecutor. Damn fine man." The lead telescoped to a dead end as the Appellate Court Judge droned on about Gaudet's accolades. He even mentioned that Gill prosecuted a suspect for a decapitation case nineteen years earlier but lost on verdict. "The man was devastated, I tell you."

  Bile boiled up, "Sheriff Gaudet seems like the perfect man, Judge, thanks for your time."

  "Well, he ain't perfect, Detective Walker. He's got an unhealthy obsession with the number thirteen and women. One kept him under fear and the other kept him under thumb."

  "I've heard about the numerophobia, but women?" No way was Gill afraid of women, I thought.

  "Let me say, woman. As in one. Some girl from college out here." I didn't want to consider it, but I knew he meant Lucy.

  - Detective Walker -

  I skidded along the vinyl seat against the back wall of the café. Hated to admit it, but I was flat exhausted. Between the driving, the phone calls and reality of what awaited just across the parish line – I had to muster my strength.

  It was easy to charge into battle as a young buck, but I’d learned to pace myself. Even if that meant grabbing something to eat at the grimiest joint in bayou land. Damn cell phone just wouldn't stop.

  “Hey Luc
y, still okay?” I was concerned about her, but the nonstop questions were wearing me thin.

  “Yes baby, I’m still out of town but will meet you around 9:00. Yes, at the Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Sir, you looking like you got the world on them shoulders. You married? Need a good woman?” The young waitress tried to make small talk. Hell, I hoped she wasn’t flirting.

  “You offering dah’ling?” Through my cold coffee, I grinned over the cup.

  “Oh gosh no mister. You could be my grandfather or something.” So much for the tip. Probably creeped her out the way Torres did to me out in that crawfish pond in Natchitoches.

  I stretched my spine, but I couldn’t get the sensation of his fat paw running against my shirt and belt. I knew he was checking for a recording device, but thought for sure he would’ve picked up on the second weapon I keep tucked in my back.

  I decided to tip the waitress anyway. She did a decent job and after all, I was the one who asked. Thought it was funny though – a grandpa. I dug into the back pocket for my wallet but didn’t feel the usual bulge of that snub-nose revolver.

  “No wonder that fat Narc didn’t catch it, I left it in the glove box for the ride.” I mumbled walking out the door. She must’ve really thought I was old and talking to myself. Personally, I was a little disappointed in myself for having forgotten the gun in the first place. Wasn’t like me – maybe age was catching up. I replaced that trusty tool the second I hopped in the truck.

  - Detective Walker-

  My headlights scraped across the Sheriff's Office parking lot. Gill's car was still there. It was an easy mark – newest ride in the fleet. My tires crunched the gravel-covered concrete as I skidded to a stop.

  I didn't bother going through the Detective Bureau’s entrance, and there was no secretary on duty this late, so I stormed headfirst into the Sheriff's lavish office.

  "Walker, you better try knocking."

  His arrogance enraged me.

  "Knocking is the least of your worries. Where's Lucy?" He never flinched, much less bothered to sit upright in his executive leather chair.

  "Lucy? Off doing what she does best.” He smiled.

  That comment threw me off track, but I had to stay focused. I was gambling on a hunch. No evidence.

  "How could you?" I knew that came off as childish, but my mind washed over who was more evil between the two.

  A slow grin spread across his features. "How could I? Easy. She loves to kill, and I love her."

  "What?" The coldness of his words sucked the warmth from my soul. He was the devil’s own son.

  "She's the killer. Hell, she killed them all. That's what she does - besides working for me."

  I could have put my fist through his face. "Why didn't you stop her?"

  "I tried once. She threatened to leave me. Promised to stop at thirteen. She knows how much I hate that number."

  “Tried? You’re the Sheriff.” Was I really having this conversation?

  A small cone of light escaped beneath the shaded lamp and lit his frame arched across the desk, “You’re a good detective, Walker. Got this all figured out.”

  “I asked you where is she?” My thumb separated the snaps on the leather holster.

  “I promised my constituents.” His soulless eyes darted the dimness.

  "Has she gone to kill thirteen people?" My spine