PICTURE PERFECT MURDER

By B J Bourg

“Walter, she didn't have a chance.” Crime Scene Investigator Kristen Silverman turned Valerie Gravois' body over. Valerie's brown eyes stared unseeing into space. Her lime-colored shirt accentuated the crimson spot on her chest.

I swallowed hard and turned toward the counter. I heard a faint beeping noise and realized that the telephone receiver was on the floor. I glanced up. The remnants of the surveillance camera dangled from the ceiling. “Why shoot the camera?”

Kristen looked up at me. “I found a piece of red fabric in the victim's hand. She probably ripped it from the suspect's face and he panicked.”

I shook my head. “Val always was a bit feisty.”

Kristen glanced up at me. Sweat pasted a tuft of blonde hair to her forehead. “You knew her?”

“I came to the Swift Stop nearly every morning to talk with her. Good girl.” I pointed to the office door. “Anything on the tape?”

“Forget it. According to the owner, the recording device is empty. He has it more as a deterrent. He never dreamed anything like this would hap

“It didn't deter crap here.” I looked toward the end of the counter where the register was located. The cash drawer was open. “How much did they get?

“Cleaned it out. The owner's best guess is two or three hundred.”

I looked down at Val's body. She would have turned nineteen in June. A bright girl with a bright future. Why did it have to end like this for her? Sure, I'd seen more than my share of dead and dying, but this was something altogether different…I usually met my victims after they were dead.

Kristen straightened and pulled at her tight jeans. She gathered her crime scene kit and moved into the office. She let out a long whistle. “Wow, who's the photographer?”

I followed her into the office. Three of the four walls were covered with photographs. I smiled. “Val loved to photograph people.”

“Good stuff.” Kristen scanned the walls. “She liked you. There must be twenty pictures of you here.”

“She did that to harass me.”

“Seems like she was a lot of fun.”

“Yeah.” I thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, she hadn't been herself the past two weeks.”

“Meaning?”

“She seemed preoccupied. When I'd ask what's up, she'd just say she had a lot on her mind.”

When I could no longer stand to see Valerie lying there in her own blood, I walked outside. I took a deep breath and said softly to myself, “Remain detached, remain detached.”

A patrol sergeant was across the street interviewing an elderly woman. The woman wore a battered straw hat and stood beside a lawnmower. I started toward them.

“Detective Diaz, hold up.”

I turned. A K-9 deputy jogged across the parking lot to where I stood. “Rufus picked up a track. It went round back to the bayou side and then south to that vacant lot.” He led me around the north side of the convenient store to the middle of vacant lot. “Track stops here.”

“Car?”

The K-9 deputy nodded.

I jotted the information in my notebook and surveyed the area. It was quarter to one on a Monday afternoon. Cars were bumper to bumper along the busiest street in Lafourche Parish. There was an insurance business to the north of the convenient store and several houses across the street. I shook my head. This was brazen.

I walked over to the patrol sergeant. “Hey Sarge, got anything?”

He pointed to the elderly woman. “She saw two men run to a blue Ford Thunderbird parked in that empty lot. One had on a mask. The other was holding his hand over his face.”

“Gun?”

“One of them had something black in his hand. She couldn't say which man or which hand.”

“Direction of travel?”

“North.”

“Anything solid on the car?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Just make and model. Her daughter drives a red Thunderbird, so she's sure about that. She didn't notice bumper stickers, license plate, damage, stuff like that.”

“Run a state-wide check to find out if any Thunderbirds were stolen in the past month or so.”

The sergeant turned to leave and stopped. “One other thing—she thought there was a woman driving. She couldn't be positive, but she did mention it.”

I recruited three detectives from my squad and we spent the rest of the afternoon canvassing the area. Other than the grandma cutting grass, no one saw anything.

Just before knock-off time I stopped at the Crime Lab to see Kristen Silverman and found her bent over a microscope. “Give me the good news.”

“Not much to give.” Kristen brushed her short, blonde hair from her tanned forehead and straightened. “The bullet that killed Valerie and the bullet that killed the surveillance camera were not fired from the same gun. A .357 killed Valerie and a 9 mm destroyed the camera. I sent the bullets to be entered into IBIS.”

“So, they both had guns.” I dropped into the chair by Kristen's desk. “What's an IBIS?”

“Integrated Ballistics Identification System. It's a database of bullet fingerprints. If this gun was used in other crimes, I'll know about it.”

“Technology never ceases to amaze me. Someone needs to hurry and find a cure for seasonal allergies.” I flipped open the photo envelope on Kristen's desk. Autopsy pictures of Valerie slid out. I gasped when I saw them. She looked so pale and… dead .

I felt Kristen's hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I just didn't expect to see that.” I took a deep breath. “You know, I convinced her to go to college. I'd tell her that she was too smart to be a store clerk.” I smiled. “Of course, she'd often tell me I was too dumb to be a detective.”

Kristen threw her head back and laughed. “Apparently she didn't know you very well. You're the best we've got.”

“That ain't saying much. But Val, she was smart. She had only a year left to get her degree.” I closed the envelope. “Any prints at the scene?”

“I recovered a dozen prints, but I was able to match them to the owner and Valerie.” Kristen handed me a picture of the red fabric. “This and the projectiles are about the only pieces of physical evidence to link the suspect to the scene.”

“ If the dirt-bag keeps the gun.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Kristen handed me a list of credit card and bank account numbers, “Valerie's purse was also taken. I've been on the phone with her bank and credit card companies. They're gonna keep the cards active for a few day.”

“How about her camera?”

“Didn't find one.”

“Hmm, it was always with her. Did you check her car?”

“Yep. Nothing.”

“Okay, I'll check the pawnshops. Let me know if you get anything else.”

The pawnshops turned up nothing. When I returned to the office, I surfed the computer for unsolved murders and robberies. The neighboring parish of Lakeside worked an execution style murder two weeks prior, but a call to the lead detective dispelled any thoughts of there being a connection. “Poor bastard was shot behind the ear at close range in his front yard,” the detective told me. “We found a large quantity of heroin in his possession. Our narcotics detectives confirmed that he was one of the biggest drug dealers in our parish. You ask me, the killer should get a public service award.”

I checked the Louisiana Department of Corrections database for any paroled robbers or murderers, but nothing looked promising. With nowhere else to turn, and starting to fear that Valerie's murder would go unsolved, I thumbed through the mountain of files that had been compiled over the years on those suspect's whom we knew committed certain offenses, but were unable to gather the evidence needed to garner convictions. The minutes turned into hours and the hours began to overlap. I searched and searched and….

I awoke to the sound of voices. I opened my eyes but didn't move. It took me a full second to realize I was still at the office.

“My Lord, you never went home?” Marcia's arms were crossed and she looked over the rims of her oversized glasses. There was a fake look of concern in her faded eyes. “What is it about this case that kept you here all night?”

I shrugged. I didn't want to talk to Marcia about anything, much less this case. Sometimes I thought she hid a tape recorder in her salt and pepper frizz. I could think of no other explanation for the accuracy with which she repeated everyone's conversations. Some of the detectives referred to her as ‘Motor-mouth Marcia' behind her back.

I followed the aroma trail to the coffee pot and, although I never touched the stuff, I poured a monster-size cup. It didn't help my headache, but it did separate my eyelids and kept them open on the drive back to the crime scene.

The Swift Stop was still closed for business. I ducked under the crime scene tape and unlocked the door with the key I had gotten from the owner. Kristen was one of the best crime scene investigators in the state and I knew if she didn't find it, it didn't exist…I just couldn't help but think there had to be something here. I went over the scene again and again. I bent under the counter and searched the floor inch by inch—

“Hey! Where's my whiskey?”

I snapped upright and banged my head hard on the underside of the counter. Cursing to myself, I jumped to my feet. A wino stood on wobbly legs across the counter. He pointed a long, crusted index fingernail in my face. “You don't work here.”

“And you must be blind.” I walked around the counter. “Didn't you see the police tape? This is a crime scene.”

The wino's eyes grew wide when he saw the pistol on my side. He scurried back toward the door. “No need to get physical,” he said.

I watched him throw his leg over a rusted bicycle. He pushed off to a shaky start and crashed into the garbage bin and fell. I laughed. The wino stood, pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped down the seat. I turned away. I started to go over the scene once more and then froze. The rag—it was the same color and pattern as the fabric Kristen found in Valerie's hand.

I rushed outside. “Where'd you get that rag?”

The wino fell to the ground and covered his greasy face with his stained hands. “Please, don't hit me.”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Don't be stupid.” I pulled the rag from his hand. It was a larger piece than the one Kristen found. “I just want to know where you got this rag.”

The wino shrugged. “Found it.” He pointed to the north. “Over by the bank.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Show me.” It didn't take me long to regret letting the wino ride in my unmarked. The stench of stale urine drifted across the few feet that separated us. I rolled the windows down and hung my head out. The wino directed me to Granny's Oven, a bakery just south of Southern Premier Bank. I turned down West 15 th Street . It separated the bank from the bakery. The wino pointed to the payphone beside the bakery. “Found it right there. On the ground.”

My heart pumped like a piston. I felt that a break in the case was near. I carefully checked the area surrounding the payphone—no clues. I dusted the payphone for prints. I found a couple of partial prints, but nothing too promising. I wasn't even sure if there was enough ridge work for Kristen to make a match.

Before I threw in the towel, I decided to speak to Granny. I told the wino not to touch anything in my car and I pushed through the glass door of the bakery. The sweet smell of icing tickled my pallet. I smiled at Granny. “Got any brownies?”

Granny shook her gray head and laughed. “My Dear, you eat them faster than I make them.”

“For sure.” I pulled up a stool and showed Granny the piece of fabric. Her usually glowing face turned to ash when I told her why I was there.

She pulled at the buttons on the front of her shirt. “You think those murderers were outside my store?”

“I'm not sure. See anything suspicious? Strange vehicles? Anything out of the norm?”

“No. I was in the kitchen most of the day. I can't see anything from back there.”

“Any customers who weren't regulars?”

Granny ran a finger along her wrinkled brow. “There was one girl. She came in around noon, or earlier. She wanted change for a dollar. That's all. Stood right about where you are now.”

My heart raced. “Did she lean on the counter?”

Granny shrugged. “She was right there. I don't know—”

“Don't touch anything.” I rushed to my car and retrieved the fingerprint kit from my trunk. The wino was passed out in my back seat. “Hey, get up,” I said.

The wino dragged himself to a sitting position and wiped his crusty eyes. “Where am I?”

“Grab your bike and go home. I've got work to do.” I ushered him out of my back seat. “If I need anything more from you I'll come find you.”

The wino grumbled while he steadied his bike. He paddled across the street and disappeared behind the bank.

I was not surprised to find several different fingerprints on the countertop. Most were smudges, but I located four legible fingerprints and a partial palm print.

“What are you doing with that tape?” Granny wanted to know.

“We use the tape to lift the print.” I grabbed a white backing. “We then place the tape on the card like this, and…bingo. We're in business.” I held up the card for her to see. When she finished awing over it, I stuck it in my folder and rolled her prints for comparison purposes.

I bought a bagful of brownies before I left the bakery. “Call me if you remember anything.”

“Definitely the same fabric,” Kristen said. “Where'd you get it?”

“A drunk had it. Picked it up near the payphone by Granny's Oven.”

I squeezed Kristen's shoulder. “Gotta run.”

“Aren't you gonna wait for the prints?”

“Just call me when you run them.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Need to catch the telephone company before they close. I want them to pull the records of calls made to or from that payphone on the day of the murder.”

Kristen smiled. “Not too shabby, Einstein. Maybe Valerie was wrong after all.”

“Let's see,” said the office manager at the telephone company, “yep, here it is.” She pushed her Coke-bottle glasses higher on her nose and shoved a computer printout across the desk.

“What am I looking at?”

The manager pointed to one of the columns. “This collect call was made yesterday at 11:40 AM.”

“Ten minutes before the robbery. Anything else?”

“No, sir. That's the only call made that day.”

My cell phone rang. I stepped outside. “Shoot.”

It was Kristen. “Most of the prints you lifted are the old lady's.”

“Most?”

“Three of them from the counter and the ones from the payphone belong to the same person, probably a female or small child. I didn't get any hits from the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Either they were never arrested, or if they were, the individual department didn't enter their prints.”

“That's okay. I might have something here.” I returned to the desk. “Got subscriber info on the phone number?”

The manager smiled and handed me a printout. “I knew you would ask.”

I thanked her and left. The phone was registered to Grace Breaux of 2021 Blackberry Lane in Des Allemands. A driver's license check revealed that Grace was fifty-eight—a bit old to be robbing stores.

An hour later I turned down Blackberry Lane . It was a narrow street, but long. I found 2021. It was a new, doublewide trailer that squatted in the shade of a large oak tree. An elderly woman knelt beside a modest flower garden stabbing at the ground with a small hand shovel. She looked up when I approached and pushed her straw hat away from her sweaty forehead with the tip of the shovel.

I introduced myself. “Are you Mrs. Breaux?”

She nodded.

“I'm looking into collect calls that were made from a payphone yesterday. Receive any?”

Grace Breaux looked puzzled. “My daughter called me. Is there a problem?”

“Probably nothing. Why'd she call?”

“She borrowed my car, was supposed to bring it back for noon. I paged her to find out where she was.”

“Borrowed your car? What kind do you have?”

“You sure there's not a problem?”

“Do you have a blue Thunderbird?”

Grace dropped her shovel and pulled herself to her feet. “What happened? Is Rebecca okay?”

“I'm not sure. I need to talk to her.”

“She's not—” Grace Breaux jumped in her skin when my pager went off.

I glanced down at the display screen. It was Marcia and she had paged me with 9-1-1. I shook my head. She always paged me at the most inopportune times and she used 911 more than she inhaled. “Where's your daughter?”

“I haven't seen her since yesterday.”

“What do you mean?”

“She left before daylight, came home about ten, left again. Haven't seen her since.”

“Why'd she stop by?”

“Said she needed something. Last I saw of her.”

“Is this common?”

Grace nodded. “She's had drug problems for years…gets better…gets back on drugs.” Grace sighed. “What's a mother to do?”

“Was she alone yesterday?”

“Said she had to meet someone. Didn't say who.”

“Look, someone might've involved Rebecca in some bad stuff. If I can talk to her and she cooperates, I can maybe get her a reduced sentence.”

“What do you mean, sentence? She's going to jail?”

I put my hand on Grace's shoulder and in a calm voice said, “Look, if I can talk to Rebecca, I know I can convince her to cooperate and everything'll be okay. Now, I need to examine your car. How can we find her?”

Grace hesitated, but finally relaxed into resignation. “When I page her with a special code she calls right back.” She turned toward the trailer. “I'll get the number.”

My phone rang—Kristen. “Hey, girlie, what's up?”

“Where are you?” Kristen was excited. “I told Marcia to page you. You need to get here quick!”

“Get where? I'm about to solve this murder. I identified the driver and I'll bet a year's worth of paychecks that she'll lead me to the shooter.”

“Bran, we found the Thunderbird.”

I didn't like Kristen's tone. “Where?”

“It's behind the Sugar Mill—burnt to the ground.”

When I pulled up behind the Sugar Mill, my heart sank. A hearse was parked near the smoldering shell of what used to be a Ford Thunderbird. A blackened corpse lay curled on the ground. “That's not…”

Kristen nodded. “Her hands was balled into fists and that somewhat protected her prints. She's definitely your girl from the payphone. I've already put in a call for Rebecca Breaux's dental records, but I'm certain it's her.”

My insides crumbled. I leaned against the hearse and rubbed my tired face. “She was my only lead.” I pounded my forehead while I tried to figure my next move. “Look, keep her identity quiet for a while. I need some time to figure this out.”

I helped Kristen comb the crime scene, but we found nothing. “We're dealing with some slick killers,” Kristen said.

Before we finished, Marcia paged me to say that Valerie's mother wanted to speak to me. Something about a diary and a photograph.

“We're still at the burn scene,” I told Marcia. “Let her know I'll be there first thing in the morning.”

“Need the address?”

“Yeah, give it to me.”

“ 326 Titus Lane in Lakeside . I talked to Betty, she's the secretary there at CID, we're old friends, used to play Bingo together on Thursday nights and we got to talking—”

“Marcia, gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I told her what was up and she gave me directions to that address. I drew up a map for you—”

“I'm familiar with the area. Thanks, anyway.”

“Oh, and Walter, what did y'all find out there?”

I rolled my eyes at Kristen. “Marcia, we've been over the confidentiality thing before.”

“I know, I know, I was just wondering if y'all are any closer to solving that dreadful murder.”

When I arrived at Nancy Gravois' house early the next morning I saw two Lakeside deputies huddled by the front door. I recognized one of them from the police academy. “Hey Steve, what're you up to these days?”

Steve Nielson turned and smiled wide, exposing a row of tobacco stained teeth. “Dynamite Diaz! What's up, cuz?”

Steve introduced me to his partner and then slapped my back hard. “They got you investigating burglaries in our parish now?”

“Not quite.” The doorjamb was splintered and the deadbolt bent. I pointed to it. “What happened?”

“Early morning burglary. The lady thinks there's a connection between this, her daughter's murder and the murder we had here two weeks ago.”

“I talked to your homicide detectives about that. Wasn't it drug related?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why would she think it's related?”

“It happened right there,” Steve indicated across the street with his head. “Gary Coleman was shot in his own driveway.”

I walked to the street. The house was directly across from the Gravois'. It was yellow with white trim. Two story. Three-car garage with a big driveway. A Rolls was parked in the driveway and a Harley was tucked into one side of the garage. A strip of yellow police tape was still attached to the mailbox.

When Steve and his partner were done, I sat down at the kitchen table with Nancy Gravois. She looked a lot like Valerie, just older. “You wanted to see me, ma'am?”

She dabbed at her wet, swollen eyes with a Kleenex and nodded. “I found Valerie's diary yesterday. I was reading through it and a picture fell out.” She stared me right in the eyes. “I think she photographed the murder across the street.”

I tried to get comfortable with that statement before I spoke. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I think she saw what was happening from her bedroom window—”

“And she photographed it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, where's the picture?” The beating of my heart sounded like the cows coming home.

Nancy Gravois shook her head slowly. “They got it.”

“What about the diary?”

“Gone.”

I punched the table. Mrs. Gravois jumped and stared wide-eyed at me. I wanted to punch myself next…square in the nose. “I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just that I knew Valerie. She was a friend.”

Nancy nodded her forgiveness.

“Did you tell anyone about the diary, or the picture?”

“No. The only reason I called for you was because Valerie mentioned you in her diary.”

“But why didn't she tell me?” I said that more to myself. “I've seen her a dozen times since that murder.”

“Maybe she didn't know if she could trust you.”

“Excuse me?”

Nancy Gravois braced herself. “The men who killed Mr. Coleman were cops.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you sure?”

“In the picture, you could see fire coming from the gun. The cops had badges hanging from some kind of chain around their necks. The gunfire reflected off the badges.”

“But, what if they were bad guys impersonating cops?”

Nancy walked to a table in the corner of her spacious kitchen and dug through a stack of newspapers. She fished one out, dropped it on the table in front of me and pointed to a picture on the front page. “That's the man in the picture Valerie took. He's the one with the gun.”

The man was Lakeside Parish Sheriff's Office Narcotics Agent Wayne Ford. According to the news article, he and his partner were awarded the Crime Fighters of the Year Award for their work in helping to quell the drug problem in their parish. This was not going to be easy. I looked into Nancy Gravois' troubled eyes. “Are you positive this is the man who shot your neighbor?”

She simply said, “Yes.”

I called Kristen and she confirmed that the bullet that killed Valerie Gravois was fired from the same gun that killed Gary Coleman. “I wanted to call you earlier,” she said, “but I got called out. A fisherman found Valerie's purse and camera at a boat launch. Everything was intact and, as I suspected, there were no prints.”

“Now I understand why these guys are doing such a good job covering their tracks.” I filled Kristen in on what I'd discovered.

I was about to hang up and she stopped me. “Oh, I almost forgot…the autopsy report's in on Rebecca Breaux. She was killed with that same .357. It was a single gunshot to the back of the head.”

“Thanks Kristen. I have one call to make and then I'll head back to the office.”

A call to a trusted friend inside the Lakeside Sheriff's Office Narcotics Division revealed that Rebecca Breaux had been arrested in their parish for distribution of cocaine. She had made a deal to work off the charges and the case agent was none other than Wayne Ford.

I called a meeting with my Captain, my Sheriff and the District Attorney. Kristen and I presented our case to them. They agreed we were on to something, but the consensus was that we needed a lot more.

After a long morning of meetings between the Sheriffs and District Attorneys of both parishes, they agreed to let Kristen and I interview Wayne Ford and his partner, Gerald Robichaux, under the guise of trying to locate a missing Rebecca Breaux.

I called Wayne just before lunch and he graciously agreed to meet at our office to share information.

“Becca was a good girl,” Wayne said. “She just got involved with the wrong crowd.”

“I agree.” I winked over at Kristin, who listened in on the other line. “We're very committed to finding her and we appreciate everything you can do for us.”

“Like I said, as soon as me and Gerald eat, we'll be there.”

I hung up the phone. “It's definitely them.”

“How can you be sure?” Kristen wanted to know.

“Trust me.”

Wayne and Gerald arrived just after noon. Wayne looked meaner in person. He was big, with dark, bushy eyebrows and his face was twisted into a permanent scowl. Gerald was different. He had a nervous twitch going and an obvious stuttering problem. His frizzy hair was unkempt and he wore two earrings in each ear.

Wayne 's hand enveloped mine when we shook. He tried to squeeze, but I deftly repositioned my hand around his fingers and he lost round one. “Thanks for coming,” I said. I pointed to one of our newest detectives. “ Wayne , if you'll go with this detective, he'll show you some mug books and maybe you'll recognize some of Rebecca's street contacts.”

Wayne 's glare was suspicious, but he did as asked. I turned to Gerald. “Come with me.” I led him to an interview room where Kristen waited. When I closed the door, I gave it a shove and it slammed hard. Gerald jumped in place. Before he could recover, I put a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle push toward a chair. “Sit here.”

Gerald sank into the chair and tried to smile. It looked painful. I held out a picture of Rebecca Breaux. “Is this the same Rebecca Breaux who CI's for you and Wayne ?”

Gerald nodded.

“How far is she from working off her charges?”

Gerald shrugged. “I'm not sure. I guess she was almost done. It's up to Wayne , really.”

“Does she hang around with a rough crowd?”

“I guess you could consider drug dealers a rough crowd. She hung around with all kinds of dopers.”

“Rebecca's involved in some serious crimes. Maybe murder. Who, in her circle of friends, is capable of murder?”

Gerald stammered. “M…may…maybe she was involved, well, she…she was a pretty rough girl, her…herself.”

“There you go again, Gerald.”

He looked from me to Rebecca and back to me. “W…w…what?”

“Do you know something we don't know?”

Gerald just stared at me.

“Where's Rebecca?”

Gerald shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Do you watch Blue's Clues?”

Gerald shook his head, a blank expression on his face.

“You see, you keep referring to Rebecca in past tense. If this were Blue's Clues, that would be a paw print.”

“A p…paw print? What d…do you mean?”

“Let's talk about Monday. Where were you?”

“Work. Why?”

“No reason. When did you start working for Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office?”

“I don't.”

“Then why were you in Lafourche Parish Monday?”

I could see the front of Gerald's shirt jumping with each beat of his heart.

Kristen looked at me and I nodded. She scooted next to Gerald. “Gerald,” she began in that soothing voice of hers, “if I set out to destroy computer files, and I took a sledge hammer to the monitor, would that work?”

Gerald thought for a moment. He finally said, “No. You would have to destroy the hard drive.”

Kristen smiled. “Exactly. Now, a video surveillance camera is no different. You can destroy the eye of the camera, but the recording device is like the hard drive. Everything it recorded up until the time the camera's eye was shot out will be preserved.”

The color drained slowly from Gerald's face.

“Gerald,” Kristen touched his arm, “what do you think is the last thing the camera recorded before you shot it?”

“This was a trap!” Gerald bolted to his feet. “I'm leaving!”

I stepped between Gerald and the door. My eyes must have looked as cold as I felt, because Gerald melted. He dropped to the chair and buried his face on the desk. He sobbed like a little boy who just found his puppy dead.

“You need to tell us what happened,” Kristen said.

“I'm not saying anything until I talk to Wayne .”

“ Wayne has done quite enough for you,” I said. “Although, you are lucky in one regard.”

Gerald was puzzled. “W…w…what d'ya m…mean?”

“I hear lethal injection is much more humane than the electric chair. They say you don't feel a thing. It's like going to sleep, except you wake up dead.”

“Lethal injection?”

I nodded. “Unless you start talking, you'll get the death penalty for the murder of Gary Coleman, Valerie Gravois and Rebecca Breaux. I know you didn't pull the trigger and you weren't the mastermind behind it all, but we can't prove that—unless you help us prove it. You need to start talking. That's the only thing that'll save your life.”

“First, you gotta promise to protect me from Wayne .”

I nodded. “Consider it done.”

Gerald sighed. “Can I have a cigarette? I'll tell you everything.”

Gerald told us he and Wayne were wired into Gary Coleman's drug business and Wayne had begun to get greedy…demanding more and more money from Coleman, until Coleman couldn't afford to pay his bills and was in danger of losing everything. “ Gary threatened to turn himself in and rat us out.” Gerald shook his head. “You don't threaten Wayne .”

Kristen said, “Go on.”

“We went to Gary 's house and Wayne made him kiss his Rolls goodbye. While Gary was bent over, Wayne shot him behind the ear.” Gerald scrunched out the cigarette. “We saw a flash from a bedroom across the street. Wayne knew it was from a camera. We started following the girl and Wayne decided to do her at her job…make it look like a robbery. When we ran through the door she reached for the phone. I tried to stop her and she ripped off my mask. That's when Wayne shot her.”

“How'd Rebecca factor into this?” Kristen asked.

“ Wayne needed a driver.” Gerald shook his head. “He told Becca we were working an undercover operation. When she became suspicious, Wayne killed her and burned her body in her car.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Who broke into the Gravois' home last night?”

Gerald raised his hand. “I did.”

“Why last night?”

“ Wayne overheard our secretary talking to someone from your department about a diary and incriminating picture that Nancy Gravois had.” He shook his head. “I just wanted all of it to stop.”

“You could've stopped it at any time,” I said.

“You don't know Wayne . He would've killed me…and he'll kill you if you try to arrest him. He's already said he'll die before going to jail.”

I slid a notebook to Gerald. “Start writing everything down.” I called a detective to sit with Gerald.

Kristen and I met with Wayne in a separate interview room. He looked up as we entered. I closed the distance between us fast and slapped Wayne square in the face. Stunned, he staggered to his feet. I grabbed his right arm and twisted it into a rear arm-lock and smashed him against the desk. Kristen kicked his legs out from under him and snatched his duty weapon, a backup pistol and two knives from his person. We handcuffed him.

The veins in Wayne 's temples were bulging. “What is going on? Do you know who I am?”

I pushed Wayne to a chair. “Sorry about all of this. We did this so we wouldn't have to kill you.”

“What in the Hell are you talking about?” Wayne strained against the cuffs. “Boy, you'd better get me out of these cuffs right now!”

“ Wayne , you're under arrest for the murders of Valerie Gravois and Rebecca Breaux.” I calmly read Wayne his Miranda Rights, but I don't think he heard a word I said above his own swearing.

“You've got nothing on me!” Wayne spat the words at me. “I'll get out soon, and when I do, I'm gonna come for y'all!”

Kristen met Wayne 's evil gaze with her own and held it until he looked away. “You're nobody I'd ever worry about. You're a coward. You shoot helpless, defenseless people. For once in your life, why don't you show the semblance of manhood and admit what you did?”

“Please, you've gotta believe me,” Wayne fell to his knees, “I didn't do any of it. I'm a good cop.”

I stood to go. “ Wayne , you can go to the needle denying what you did…I don't give a shit. What I do know is this…you took three lives and now you're gonna lose your own. I just wish we could kill you three times.”