My thumb was already greasing up the screen of my phone, but I dialed anyway. The humidity, thick as week-old roux, clung to everything, including my patience. Doc Broussard’s van was already rumbling away, taking our latest exhibit – one very dead, very expensive swamp thing – back to the air-conditioned morgue. Good riddance. The bayou could keep its smells; I just needed the body gone before the buzzards got any bolder. They were circling higher now, probably discussing lunch plans and critiquing the killer’s presentation. Smug feathered vultures.
“This is Thibodaux,” I said into the receiver, cutting off whatever chirpy greeting the desk sergeant was about to offer. “I need a bulletin out, ASAP. Fisherman. White male, probably mid-fifties, seen fleeing the scene of a… discovery. He probably left his boat tied up around the bend from the old cypress that looks like a drunken octopus. Get a description from anyone who fishes that stretch of water. Tell them we’re not looking to arrest him, just to chat about what he saw. Emphasize the ‘chat’ part. He’s scared, and scared people clam up tighter than an oyster in a hurricane.”
A grunt of acknowledgment came from the other end. “Got it, Thibodaux. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Check missing persons reports from the last week, maybe two. High-profile, high-net-worth individuals. Anyone who wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, unless it was for a very specific, very ill-advised reason. We’re talking expensive suits, custom shoes, watches that cost more than my annual salary. Basically, anyone who looks like they fell out of a Forbes magazine and into a crawfish trap.”
Another grunt. “You think it’s another one, then?” The question was hesitant, almost a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might conjure more horrors.
“Think?” I snorted, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I know. This particular killer has a very specific aesthetic. Call it his ‘collection.’ And I’m damn tired of being the curator.” I hung up before he could offer any more useless platitudes.
Darnell and Gary were still wrestling with the last of the forensic equipment, their movements slow and deliberate in the oppressive heat. Gary, bless his too-green heart, still looked like he’d swallowed a dozen live crawfish. He was trying to be useful, but his eyes kept darting to the stained bank where the trap had rested. I remembered my first one. The memory still made my stomach clench.
“Gary,” I called, “finish up here, then head back to the station. See if you can dig up anything on those missing persons reports. Focus on anything that screams ‘out of place.’ Darnell, you stay here and make sure CSI gets every last speck of swamp mud that might be useful.”
Darnell nodded, his silent strength a comfort. Gary, however, hesitated. “Thibodaux, do you… do you really think he’s picking them because they’re rich?”
I turned to him, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a cypress, its bark peeling like old skin. “Gary, this isn’t some random act of violence. This killer isn’t just dumping bodies; he’s staging them. He’s making a statement. And that statement, so far, has been shouted in expensive Italian wool and handcrafted leather. These aren’t just bodies in traps; they’re trophies. And trophies usually come from somewhere specific, and they mean something to the hunter.”
My gaze swept over the murky water, the ancient trees, the way the light dappled through the Spanish moss, giving everything a deceptively peaceful glow. It was a beautiful, deadly place. A perfect canvas for a monster who liked his victims dressed for a board meeting before their final, macabre performance. The contrast was deliberate, a brutal irony. What was it about these men, these fancy pants, that attracted such a specific, gruesome end in the heart of the bayou?
I pulled out my phone again, ignoring the sticky feeling of the screen. Another call. This one to the state police, to cross-reference their cold cases. Maybe, just maybe, this killer hadn’t started his collection here in our little corner of Louisiana. Maybe he’d been practicing his ‘art’ somewhere else first, before finding his perfect gallery in our swamps. Because if there was one thing I knew about artists, especially the twisted kind, it was that they rarely stopped once they found their inspiration. And this guy? He was just getting warmed up. I could feel it in the thick, heavy air. And it smelled an awful lot like despair.