The Pine Bayeux Parish had a small police force for the size of its county, and it was not enough to keep track of all the parish. There was one Sheriff who had been in office for 25 years and four full-time deputies. It had no need for detectives as there was rarely a crime more serious than poaching, some drug running, shoplifting, a few home invasions and DUIs. Murder was rare, but it had happened. When it did, the Sheriff called in the CBI out of New Orleans.
So, it was with some surprise that he received an e-mail from the Forensics Department of the Criminal Bureau earmarked for his parish. In Louisiana, counties were not called that but parishes, a throwback to its early settlement by religious groups such as the Acadians.
“Says we got a hit on some fingerprints and DNA,” he called out and the woman who really ran the nuts and bolts of the department looked up from her filing.
“A hit on what?” she asked, thinking furiously what she had sent out and not coming up with anything recent.
“Says the fingerprints match a missing person. Found in New York. A survivor of that wreck happened a year ago.”
“I remember that now. Read about it in the paper,” she nodded. “Twenty some people died off the bus and some passengers from other cars. So, whose fingerprints are they? And the DNA? Took them big city folks long enough to answer us. An entire year.”
“They said the backlog is horrendous.” The Sheriff looked up and his face expressed shock. “Chenille is Deputy Neige on duty now?”
She looked at the schedule which she had set up and nodded. “Three to eleven shift. On patrol but I bet he’s sitting out on Duvalier Lane catching speeders.”
“Call him in,” the Sheriff ordered but he wouldn’t say why or anything until his Deputy arrived.
Twenty minutes later, Deputy Tempe Neige walked into the station, his cowboy boots making a distinct sound on the hard tile floor. Sheriff Rice beckoned him into his office and told him to close the door. He told the six-foot-three Deputy to sit and Neige complied, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands. He sat uncomfortably on the hard-backed chair, gun, handcuffs, baton, and other gear digging into his belt and back unless he scooted forward.
“Chief?” he asked, his dark Creole face wrinkled in confusion.
Rice said bluntly, “fingerprints and DNA came back today from IAFIS and the State Lab in New York. A hit. Matches your DNA. The fingerprints come back to those of the sample you gave us.”
“Cris? Cris’ fingerprints? They found Cris? What about Violet?” He leaned forward as if he was going to leap out of the chair.
“Remember that multi-car pile-up on the Interstate involving a tour bus and tractor trailer? There was only one survivor – a seven-year-old boy? Well, it was your son.”
“But Cris was ten!” he protested.
“You said he was small for his age. Maybe they guessed wrong?”
“Why didn’t he tell them who he was and how old? Why did I have to wait a whole fucking year to hear this? Who’s had him all this time and where’s Violet?”
“You said Violet took him and ran. Maybe she told him not to say anything. Besides, there’s more.”
“More?” Neige asked, his face pale and then red with anger.
“Violet was not identified but from the autopsy reports, we’re pretty sure that the victim identified as Violet Smith was her. She was decapitated, and they never found her head. No dental records so all they had was DNA and guesses. And your boy – he was seriously injured in the crash. I called and got the accident reports. He died four or five times. Bled out. The doctors brought him back, but he had severe brain damage from lack of oxygen due to hemorrhagic shock. He was in a coma for over a year.”
“Was? He’s not now?”
“You remember those big-name lawyers stepped in and took the wrongful death cases for the families? Well, they settled with your boy’s lawyers for hundreds of millions of dollars. All in a Trust for the boy.”
“Where is he?” Neige demanded through gritted teeth.
“The lawyers arranged for him to go to a fancy Prep school in upstate New York. Name of Reacher Hall. It’s in a small town called Mt. Upton. I figured you’d want some time off to go up there and get your boy. Bring him home. Word of advice, Tempe. Get a lawyer before you head up there. When there’s that much money involved, vultures and blood suckers come a-flocking.”
Neige stood up and thanked the Sheriff. He shook hands and accepted all the papers that Chenille had printed off for Rice. The bundle contained all the accident reports, photos and case files of the accident and the emails from the state lab. It also contained a list of addresses, phone numbers and contacts he might need or use. There was a list of big-name New York City lawyers that Chenille had added along with comments on each firm. She gave them ratings from one star to five.
Neige drove home to his three-bedroom ranch on the edge of town and surrounded by woods and swamp, his house had its own pier into the bayou. The bedroom still housed his wife’s things and his son’s toys lay stacked neatly in the toy chest, waiting for him to come home and scatter them about. He drove home above the speed limit, not caring who saw him, his face dark with repressed fury and elation at the news of Violet’s death and his son’s survival.
Once inside the home, he changed his clothes to well-worn jeans ironed to a knife edge crease, blue denim work shirt with pearl snaps, a belt that carried his off-duty weapon in a flat holster on his hip. He packed a small bag, printed out directions from Map Quest, made a reservation for a stop on the way and another for the nearest Hotel in Mt. Upton. Last, he called the law firm that Chenille had picked as top choice and made an appointment for the day after he arrived in New York.
His F-150 was gassed and ready to go forty-five minutes after receiving the news that his son was alive and out of a coma. He was on the Interstate, heading North for upstate New York averaging a speed of 85 mph. No one stopped him, and he suspected that Sheriff Rice had put out the word that he was headed north and not to pull over a speeding truck with his Deputy inside.