Chapter 3
Hank
AFTER THE ALIBI
My tires squeal as I make the turn. I’m driving faster than I should on a residential street on a Sunday morning since there’s bound to be kids out, but I’m in a panic.
It’s one of those perfect, crystal-clear, blue-skies kind of days where you’re looking for any excuse to be outside.
Cars are being washed in driveways, weeds are being pulled from flowerbeds, and there’s a lemonade stand set up even though we’re well into October.
But this is the calm before the storm. Everyone I pass is completely unaware that their peacefulness is going to be shattered.
Just like mine was shattered when I received that frantic call seven minutes ago.
Slowing down just enough that I don’t take the turn on two wheels, I pull into the driveway.
My truck screeches to a stop, and I see her waiting for me exactly where I told her to. Looks like I’ll have a few minutes to talk to her alone, and it won’t be nearly enough time.
Camille is sitting on the stone steps that lead to the massive wooden front doors of her house, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her hair is pulled back from her face, and she’s bathed in the midmorning light, making it easy to see how pale she is.
I’m in front of her within seconds, dropping down to a crouch.
“Hank…” Her voice cracks when she says my name.
There are trails of watery mascara down both cheeks and her nose is running. She ducks her head toward her shoulder, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her button-down, only for a fresh wave to take their place.
“Is anyone else here?” I nod in the direction of the 1970 red Mustang that’s parked in the overflow parking spot near the garage. It’s hard to miss and also very out of place.
She looks over her shoulder at the car and stiffens slightly. “No. That…was here. There’s no one else here.”
Her answer begs more questions, but I let it go for now. “Wait while I check inside.”
She grabs my arm, her eyes wide. “No…don’t go in…”
I take her hand in mine, giving it a quick squeeze. “I’ll be right back.” I press down on the handle with my elbow then use my shoulder to push the heavy door open.
The smell hits me first. My throat tightens as I pull my shirt up to cover my nose. The sight that greets me once I’m inside almost brings me to my knees. It’s as bad as she described. I take one step, then two, but stop before entering the home office just off the foyer.
Ben is lying on the floor, and the purplish-gray tint of his skin tells me he’s been dead for some time.
It’s not easy to look at what happens to a body in this condition.
Even though it’s clear there’s nothing to be done for Ben, I move closer.
The blood looks like it poured from some opening in the chest before soaking into the rug underneath him, but without touching him, it’s impossible to tell whether a bullet or a blade or something else caused the damage.
A wave of grief rolls through me but I force it down, locking it away to be dealt with later, when Camille isn’t falling apart outside and the cops aren’t racing this way.
It’s hard to pull my gaze away from him, but I need to make the most of my time before the police arrive since I won’t be allowed inside once they get here. I scan the room, taking it all in, try to see what’s in front of me objectively.
Ben’s desk is a large ornate piece that is the focal point of the room and he’s on the floor next to it.
I try to imagine the steps that led him to this spot.
Imagine him alive in this space. His desk chair is pushed back, so he could have been seated and then gotten up and rounded the corner from the right side, leaving the seat turned in that direction.
But he didn’t get much further than that.
There are two smaller chairs in front of the desk for guests, and the one closest to Ben is on its side.
Was someone sitting there and knocked it over in their rush to meet Ben head-on?
Other than that, everything else in his office seems intact.
Nothing looks rummaged through or noticeably out of place, but I do spot several client files on his desk.
Ben may be gone, but his clients are still protected under privilege.
There’s no murder scene exception that allows the cops to look through any of that information, so I make a mental note to deal with that when they get here.
There is a credenza behind Ben’s desk, against the back wall of the room, where his laptop sits open but dark.
The bookshelves on the far wall are in order, and the cabinet doors that hide his bar setup are open.
The crystal decanter that I know from firsthand experience contains some of the best bourbon I’ve ever tasted is pulled forward from its usual spot.
I glance back at the desk for the glass he must have used to pour a drink but don’t see it.
Another step further in the room and to the left, I find it behind the desk on the floor, still intact but on its side.
I take one last glance at Ben before I back out of the room.
What the fuck happened in here?
There will be time to mourn him later, but right now I need to see about Camille.
Exiting the house, I sit on the step next to her. “Tell me exactly what happened when you got home.” Her eyes are glassy, like she’s not really seeing me. Hearing me.
She draws a ragged breath. “I came in through the garage door like I always do. Called out for Ben. Went looking for him…and then I…I saw him. On, on the…floor.” She turns and looks back at the house.
“I called 911. They wanted me to stay on the phone, but I was scared. I knew how close you were. Ben…Ben always said I could call you if there’s an emergency.
So I called you. Then came out here. Like you said. ”
The sirens in the distance tell me we are almost out of time.
“He was right. The police are going to ask you a bunch of questions so they can find who did this to Ben. Answer them honestly. But don’t guess at anything.
Don’t assume anything. Don’t agree to something they say if you don’t think it’s correct.
If there’s something you can’t answer or don’t think you should answer, look directly at me.
I will take it from there. Don’t worry about what that looks like.
Better to be safe now than sorry later.” We’re staring at each other.
I’m throwing a lot at her and I’m hoping most of it is sinking in. “Okay?”
She nods.
“I need to hear you say okay.”
She nods again and then utters a faint “Okay.”
“You just got back to town? Just now? Right when you called me?”
Her bottom lip quivers and some of her hair falls loose from the clip holding it back, but she ignores it. “Yes. Just got back. Just now.”
I squeeze her arm. “You’re doing good. We’ll figure this out. But for right now we’ve got to get through the next few hours, okay? Did you touch anything in the office? Was there anything out of place inside?”
“No…I don’t think so…just set my stuff down in the kitchen…went looking for Ben, and then I saw…” She can’t finish the sentence.
“That’s good. You’re doing really good.” She’s not far from shutting down completely.
When the first cop car pulls into the driveway, she falls into my side, sobbing.
There’s so much I don’t know about what happened here, but my first priority is her. That’s what Ben would want. I can unpack the rest of it later.
Two officers exit the vehicle and jog toward us, their right hands resting on their firearms. It sounds like there are a dozen more sirens racing to the house.
I imagine all the neighbors are edging their way toward the street to get a better look, although in this neighborhood it won’t be easy for them to see too much since the houses sit so far apart.
One of the approaching cops stays a few feet back while the other stops just in front of the steps.
Keeping her tucked under my arm, I pull us both up to standing, making sure my free hand stays loose by my side.
Based on the wild eyes, these two haven’t been on the force long, so no need for nervous, twitchy fingers to decide I’m a threat.
The new arrivals are exiting their vehicles but keeping some distance.
“We’re responding to a 911 call that there’s been a break-in and possible homicide,” says the officer closest to us.
If I wasn’t holding on to her as tightly as I am, Camille would have hit the ground when he said “homicide.” I angle my body in a way that puts me closer to him while also sliding her somewhat behind me.
We’re one step above so I’m towering over him.
I’m a big guy and have no problem using my size to establish some dominance when needed, like right now.
“I’m Hank Landry.” I see recognition flicker across both their faces. “My client just arrived home from being out of town and discovered the victim.” It’s a conscious choice to call her “my client” instead of using her name.
A handful of cops are a dozen feet behind these two, waiting on orders. An ambulance barrels into the yard, with little care for the grass or flowerbeds, since the driveway is now full of cop cars. The level of response this call has received is not lost on me.
“Is there anyone else inside?” he asks.
“Not that we’re aware of, but neither of us has checked the house.”
Within minutes, every cop swarms inside except for the uniformed babysitter instructed to watch over us. The EMTs wait off to the side, but once they’re told there’s nothing to be done for Ben, they’ll pack up and leave.
While we wait, all I can think of is how much Ben would hate all these people in his house.
This place was on the market for less than a day when Ben scooped it up.
It didn’t matter that it was old and dated, because a lot this large in the heart of Baton Rouge made up for it.
He and Camille spent more than a year remodeling it with a team of designers.
Ben sat in on every meeting, and every decision, no matter how small, had to be approved by him.
He was obsessed with each little detail, making sure he had the best of the best, the way only a poor kid turned rich would be.
He talked about this house like other guys talk about fixing up an old car or getting their duck blind ready for hunting season.
If I heard him say “French Provincial style” once when describing the aesthetics, I heard it a hundred times.
Now, the meticulously maintained landscaping is being trampled just as I’m sure the expensive rugs inside are.
The crowd grows. Nosy neighbors have walked down the street and are standing in groups of twos and threes on the edge of the yard in front of the house.
I’m sure the cops will talk with all of them, but I’d be surprised if they get any useful information.
The dozens of live oak trees and the mature landscaping will make it damn near impossible for the neighbors to provide any real insight since it’s difficult to see from one house to the other through the thick foliage.
I scan person after person looking for the detectives, the ones in plain clothes I know will turn up eventually. The first conversation will be the most important, and I’m not wasting it on some pimply-faced rookie. Finally, I see a familiar face walking toward me.
Detective Sullivan joins us on the steps, and I raise my right hand to shake his. “Sully, good to see you, but wish like hell it was under different circumstances.”
“I was just about to go off shift when I caught this call. Didn’t realize whose place this was till I pulled up and saw you two.” He’s talking to me, but his eyes are taking everything in, especially the way Camille is clinging to me.
Shouts of “all clear” filter through the front door. A few cops head back out, one of them pulling Sullivan aside, catching him up, while the other tells the paramedics they aren’t needed. There’s no saving Ben.
Sullivan steps away and whistles loudly. Everyone in uniform stops and gives him their full attention. “Lock it down.”
And then they’re all on the move again. One of the cops produces yellow police tape and begins to unroll it.
The Bayliss home is officially a crime scene.