Not One of Us Read online

  Pizza was delivered within twenty minutes, and after they’d scarfed down their slices, they adjourned to their rooms. I slouched in the recliner with my laptop and pulled up the old Cormier file. It was massive, but I was determined to review the facts. The scanned officer notes in the PDF were often hard to decipher, so it was slow going. The first big surprise was that the police had always worked under the assumption that the family was murdered and not just missing.

  They’d found an old camcorder tossed in a bookshelf drawer. Bloody fingerprints on the machine were identified as Deacon Cormier’s. According to the transcript, the video started with the image of Deacon Cormier standing in the den wearing a tuxedo, looking uncomfortable and holding a corsage. There was a short, garbled conversation between him and the camera operator, whose voice was identified as that of his mother, Clotille. A loud noise blasted in the distance. A startled scream followed as the camera suddenly dropped to the floor with a crashing explosion. The video showed only the floor and the base of the fireplace as the audio continued running. Unfortunately, its aim prevented filming of the actual murders. A door creaked open, and Clotille spoke again, her voice high-pitched and terrified. A male voice answered before another gunshot rang out, this time loud and close. Deacon screamed, “Mom!”

  A male voice again muttered something unintelligible in the background. Presumably the killer.

  A deafening burst of noise erupted, and a second later the picture jolted and went black.

  An ominous silence of six seconds ensued, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps and then a door squeaking open. Experts agreed that the most likely scenario was that the killer had walked to the bodies to check and make sure they were dead before leaving the scene of the crime.

  Another long silence ensued, only broken by the eerie whir of the recorder. After twenty-two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, the camcorder was lifted and thrown into a drawer. Shortly after, other voices were recorded, their words even more muffled and garbled. Then the picture and the whirring came to an abrupt halt, as eerie and chilling as the stroke of a ghostly, cold finger along the spine.

  Information on the video had never been released to the public. It had been held back in hopes of identifying the killer or killers. The tape had been sent to a forensics lab, but they were unable to clearly identify the garbled voice or vocal pattern of the unidentified person in the room, much less match it with any of the persons questioned in the Cormier case.

  Also found and not released to the public was a single sprig of flowers with droplets of Deacon’s blood on it.

  Had Deacon hidden the camcorder after being injured but before bleeding out? Had the killer been distracted while his victim had the presence of mind to hide evidence that might lead to the man’s identity?

  I stopped reading and glanced out the window, stunned by the revelations. I’d only heard gossip about the case prior to now and was surprised to learn that law enforcement officials didn’t buy into the locals’ theory that the Cormiers had staged their own disappearance to either escape legal trouble or avoid some type of Mafia backlash.

  One of the original investigators even suggested that the recording itself could have been a hoax deliberately planted by Louis Cormier to make police believe there’d been foul play. Most of the cops didn’t buy into that theory.

  But because of Deacon’s bloody fingerprints and the blood on the flower, more than one law enforcement officer theorized that Louis and Clotille might have murdered their son. In a panic, they’d disposed of his body somewhere and then fled the country.

  I wiped a hand over my face and got up, pacing the living room. How was it possible that no trace of violence had been detected? If Louis hadn’t been shot inside the home, I wasn’t surprised that no clues had been found on the scene. But two people shot inside? If the killer and/or any accomplice had cleaned up the evidence, they’d done a thorough job. However, it was possible to cover his tracks if all the blood had been wiped away with an active oxygen bleach. The luminol test would not have been able to pick up traces of blood, especially if the cleaning had occurred fairly soon after the crime. Oxy-type products were popular and widely available prior to the 2006 disappearance.

  I wished I could call Oliver and talk over the information with him, but he’d already told me to focus my attention elsewhere.

  Having at last absorbed those bombshells, I sat down and resumed reading. On a photocopy of Louis Cormier’s business calendar I discovered a new surprise. A small notation on one of the dated squares had me sit up straight, my brain tingling at the unexpected bit of information.

  May 4, 2006. Fountain Correctional Facility. Atmore. 2:30 p.m. Raymond Strickland ALDOC# 894502.

  The date was about two weeks before Louis Cormier and his family disappeared.

  Finally. A tangible connection between the two cases. The men had known each other. Had Cormier followed through with the appointment? What reason did he have for wanting to meet with Strickland? Was it all coincidence?

  There was no further information on why Cormier was meeting Strickland or whether the scheduled meeting had ever occurred. I’d be extremely lucky if there was any record of their conversation, since attorney-inmate discussions were supposed to be confidential.

  So far in my reading, the police report made no further mention of the appointment. Instead, the investigation had focused on meetings and phone calls between Cormier and his other clients with known criminal backgrounds.

  My first order of business tomorrow morning would be to request Strickland’s inmate records and the prison visitation and phone logs for the first three weeks of May 2006. I shut down my computer and swiped a hand across my face, again questioning my decision. Was I doing the right thing pursuing this and risking Oliver’s anger? After all, he had years of experience. My colleagues would be only too glad to jump in and work the Strickland murder should Oliver remove me from the case.

  Hours had passed; the twins were already in bed. I rose from the sofa and peered out the living room window. The obsidian darkness of night was punctuated by rectangular cozy glows from a few of my neighbors’ windows. But were those really cuddly gleams of warmth that shone? Even this modest bayou town housed its own dark secrets. Contained within the four walls of individual homes were addicts and thieves and killers and violent persons who hid their dangerous shadow sides during the day.

  I’d expose whoever I could, whenever I could. I’d made that vow the day I entered law enforcement, and I wouldn’t forsake that promise now.

  Chapter 14

  JORI

  “No! Not going.”

  “Zach, you have to go to your day program. Now let’s get dressed.”

  “No!” He backed away from me, flinging his shoes across the floor.

  I sighed and put my hands on my hips. I hadn’t seen him agitated like this since I visited at Thanksgiving last year. The midweek holiday from his day program had left him cranky.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” I asked, trying to figure out the sudden resistance to his normal weekday routine.

  “Sick,” he repeated.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  He thumped his forehead with the palm of his right hand—hard enough to leave a red mark.

  “Headache?”

  “Headache,” he agreed.

  I stared at him, seeking clues as to what had set him off. His echoing my words didn’t mean he was actually sick. For people on the severe end of the autism spectrum, echolalia was a common phenomenon wherein they either repeated the last word they heard or spoke words and phrases repetitively, whether or not it was situationally appropriate. I bit my lip, trying to decide the right thing to do for Zach. If he really didn’t feel well, what was wrong? Did he need to see a doctor? Or did he just not want to leave the house?

  Some days my brother didn’t like going out and preferred to watch TV and play with his LEGOs. Not that he played with them in the conventional sense of building structures. Zach like
d to rattle them in a plastic bin or stream them from one hand to another. For hours.

  It was so hard to know how best to proceed. Didn’t Zach have the right, like anybody else, to make his own decisions about his day-to-day activities?

  “Be right back,” I said, leaving his bedroom to ask Mimi’s opinion.

  She was in the den, pacing and muttering what sounded like gibberish words under her breath.

  “Zach’s upset this morning,” I told her. “Any idea why?”

  She looked up at me, startled. “Who?”

  “Zach. He’s upset.”

  Her eyes regarded me vacantly. “Zach who?”

  The back of my throat burned with dismay, and I swallowed back a swift rush of emotion. I hadn’t ever seen her at the point where she didn’t recognize me. Apparently, Mimi didn’t remember Zach either.

  I approached slowly and gently took her arm, felt its frail weight under my hand, the skin wrinkled and loose. “Let’s go in the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, and you can take your medicine.”

  Surprisingly, she allowed me to guide her to the table and seat her in a chair. I opened the cabinet where we stored medicine and rifled through the wicker basket. Her prescription bottle was gone. My heart dropped as I pulled out the odds and ends on the bottom cabinet shelf to see if it had fallen out of the basket. It wasn’t there. Had she thrown it away? I hurried to the trash can and opened the lid, then dug through the pile of leftover grits and eggshells. Not the most fun way to start a morning. I found the amber bottle sludged in a mess of bacon grease.

  I straightened and gave Mimi a stern glare, but the far-off look in her eyes was still there. I didn’t have the heart to scold. Maybe she hadn’t done it on purpose, and it had been an accident. I rinsed the bottle in the sink and started the coffee maker before returning to the meds. I removed Zach’s blister pack, then stared in consternation. Last night’s dose was still enclosed. How had that happened? I thought back, remembering that Mimi had offered to do it last night when we’d all been in the den. Sometime between leaving the den and entering the kitchen, she’d forgotten what she’d gone in there for.

  Guilt panged my gut. I should have been paying closer attention. From now on, I’d keep the meds in my room and be the one to distribute them. No wonder Zach was so agitated and out of sorts this morning. It was a wonder he’d even slept last night. I’d have to call Zach’s doctor, confess the snafu, and get his guidance on how to get his medicine properly regulated today.

  No day program for Zach. That wouldn’t be fair to the staff or the other clients. I’d let him stay home and play with LEGOs to his heart’s content until his meds normalized.

  Once I’d made the doctor call and straightened out the med situation, I had Mimi and Zach sitting in the den, relatively content with a movie and popcorn. It was their favorite pastime, and I figured it might be calming for them—and give me a breather. The sounds of a western action adventure floated to the kitchen, where I cleaned up the last of the breakfast dishes.

  That done, I sank into one of the kitchen chairs and buried my face in my hands. I was overwhelmed, feeling unequal to the task of caring for the two people I loved most in the world. Could this day get any worse?

  The doorbell rang sharply, and I jerked my head up in surprise. Now what? I rushed to the door to find Deputy Blackwell standing on my doorstep, her expression solemn.

  Yep. Apparently, this day could get worse.

  “Got a few minutes?” she asked. Her gaze slid to Mimi and Zach on the couch. “We can sit on the porch if you’d like.”

  “Fine.” I shut the front door behind me, and we sat across from one another on the porch rocking chairs. Had she found the culprit who’d broken into our home? I waited expectantly.

  “I’m reviewing the old Cormier case and have a few questions for you.”

  I blinked. Hadn’t expected the conversation to take that route.

  “According to the notes, you spent a great deal of time at the Cormier house. I know you were questioned as a teenager, but with the space of time and distance, I’m wondering if anything has changed from what you originally told investigators. Could you have overheard any snippet of conversation that might shed some light on their disappearances? Perhaps the mother was having an affair with a jealous lover?”

  “No,” I protested, quick anger flushing my face. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was crazy about her husband. Never heard her say a bad word against him.”

  “He was gone a good bit, traveling back and forth to Mobile and meeting with clients from all over the southeast.”

  I crossed my legs. “Are you accusing me of lying back then? Because I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I was crazy about Deacon and really liked his parents. If I had any insights or suspicions, now or then, I’d immediately tell the cops.”

  She held up a hand, as though to ward off my defense. “I believe you. I’m on your side.”

  The stress rushed out of my body, and I relaxed in my seat.

  “It’s a small town. I’m sure over the years you’ve heard the rumors that Mrs. Cormier was having an affair,” Tegan said.

  “Yeah. With our librarian, Adam Logan. Apparently he took an interest in her paintings and displayed them at the library.”

  Blackwell appeared surprised that I provided a name.

  I shrugged. “Like you said, it’s a small town.” I considered her words. Maybe Clotille had been lonely. I’d been so involved with Deacon and so young that maybe I hadn’t picked up on the signs. “I suppose she could have been,” I reluctantly conceded. “But I never saw Adam at their house or even heard his name mentioned by Deacon or his mother. I’m sure he was questioned, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. He denied it, and there was no scrap of proof that they were romantically involved.” She tried another tactic. “Did you ever overhear arguments between Louis and Clotille?”

  I started to shake my head no, then abruptly stopped.

  “What is it?” Blackwell asked quickly. “Did you remember something?”

  “Only a little back-and-forth about how much Clotille had spent on her art studio. Nothing major.”

  “How did Deacon get along with his parents? He ever confide anything to you about being mistreated?”

  “He got along as well with his parents as any teenager. I mean, there were a couple of times he got in trouble at school and they’d ground him over the weekend or take away his cell phone for a few days. Normal stuff like that.”

  “Did they ever beat or neglect him?”

  “No.” I shook my head emphatically. “If anything like that had been going on, Deacon would have told me. I never saw any marks on him either.”

  “What about the alleged rumor that Louis Cormier was involved in money laundering for the mob? Or the drug trafficking rumors?”

  “Who told you that?” I asked, anger bristling the hairs on the nape of my neck.

  “Like I said before, it’s a small town. The Cormier case was huge news. Of course, I’ve heard these kinds of rumors for years. I take it you don’t believe those rumors.”

  “Not for a single minute,” I snapped. “Why is everyone so quick to judge them? Just because he was a successful attorney? Because he hadn’t been born and raised in Enigma? Because that’s crap. Something bad happened to them.”

  “I’m not disputing that something horrible occurred. If Louis Cormier was involved in criminal activity, it’s possible that his associates wanted him to disappear. I can’t divulge everything I’ve learned. Suffice to say, we have reason to believe they were murdered. Always have, contrary to the rumor mill around town when they disappeared.”

  My heart squeezed, and I drew a deep breath. This was good news, right? Not that they were sure the family was murdered—I’d always believed that. But that finally somebody didn’t believe the Cormiers had been so devious as to let everyone assume they’d been killed when they were still alive.

 
Deacon’s face flashed before me, the wide-spaced blue eyes and his slow, easy grin. No, there was no happy news in anything this officer had related.

  “I-I don’t know what to say,” I stammered at last.

  “Not only that,” Blackwell continued, “but I’ve stumbled on a connection between the past and present murders. Two weeks before Mr. Cormier disappeared, he visited Raymond Strickland at Fountain Correctional Facility.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know. Inmate-attorney meetings are confidential, so no recordings were ever made. There were also two prison phone calls between Louis Cormier and Raymond Strickland before Cormier’s disappearance. All I know for sure at this point is that they did meet.”

  “Strange,” I whispered. I never would have guessed those two had ever met. But maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising. Louis had been an attorney, and Ray might have wanted Louis to represent him in some matter like an appeal. It wasn’t like Bayou Enigma was a large town.

  “Very strange,” Blackwell agreed.

  Neither of us spoke for several minutes.

  “Let me ask you once more,” Blackwell said, her tone soft and encouraging. “Can you recall anything suspicious happening at the Cormier household? Anyone ever over there that seemed out of the ordinary or anything the Cormiers might have said that, in hindsight, might be significant now?”

  I started to again deny it but pulled up short as the image of Cash Johnson rose in my mind.

  Blackwell caught on at once. “What is it?”

  “This is embarrassing, but yeah, I thought of something. It’s probably nothing. Maybe I shouldn’t even mention it. I don’t want to get an innocent person in trouble.”

  “Tell me. You’ll feel even worse if you discover later that they’re guilty or have a clue about the old crime.”

  I nodded and spoke, hoping she couldn’t see the color heating my face. “I used to sneak out at night to visit Deacon in the old smokehouse on his property,” I admitted. “More times than not, when I’d leave the smokehouse to return home, I’d run into Cash Johnson. Even if it was before dawn, he’d be carrying a rifle and say he was going hunting. It always made me feel uncomfortable.”