Bad Tidings

Chapter 1

Herb Trotter had parked his truck behind the sand dune at Passion Pit beach. The little strip of sandy beach on the Gulf of Mexico was a favorite area for partying. It lay half a mile down an oyster-shell paved road from the Strand, a local bar.

Sand was a rare commodity along the Louisiana coast. There was plenty of the stuff surrounding Grand Isle but St. Julian Parish’s allotment was a quirk of nature no one could understand, or if they did, they weren’t telling.

The sun was just about to rise and a light breeze was already up and stirring. There’d been a Spring Tide the night before. A rare event that occurred when the moon was closest to the Earth and aligned with the sun. The combined gravitational pull of the moon and the sun caused unusually high and low tides. Herb had come early today expecting to find some good fishing with the incoming tide.

But he wasn’t prepared for what he found at the water’s edge.

~~~

Sheriff’s Deputy Ray Wilson had worked the night-owl shift and was ready to leave the station for home when the call came in—an excited voice babbling something about a man’s head on the beach. Wilson overheard the conversation and grinned. Herb Trotter again. The deputy told the dispatcher that he’d swing by before going off duty.

~~~

It’s out there but you’d better hurry before the tide comes in, a pale Herb Trotter shouted as the patrol car rolled up. All I saw was his head!

Ray Wilson eased out of his car and gave the man the once-over. Herb Trotter also had a reputation for imbibing a few every now and then.

Late night, Herb? That what this is all about?

Goddammit, Ray, I’m as sober as a judge!

Well, that’s nothing to brag about, Ray chuckled. So somebody lost his head on the beach, huh? Wouldn’t be the first time.

Herb pointed toward the beach wide-eyed and said, I ain’t going nowhere near that thing.

No need to worry, Herb, Wilson laughed and began walking toward the sand. Just sit tight and I’ll be right back.

He saw what at first appeared to be an old tree stump sticking out of the slick, packed-down sand. A closer look revealed it to be a human head.

Sweet Jesus! he muttered and grabbed for his phone. Get somebody out to Passion Pit beach right now. We’ve got a DB here. And we need some shovels. Better wake up Sheriff Wainscot, too.

~~~

Crawley Wiggens lived on Pungo Creek not far from the Passion Pit. His was a ramshackle house his dad had bought from a gone-broke shrimper fifteen years ago when the Wiggens family moved here from Ponchatoula. Crawley’s dad had fancied himself to be a crab fisherman and set up to do business. But that came to a sad end when his boat sank in a hurricane taking all his crab pots with it. The man just left one night and never returned. Crawley and his mom had lived there ever since.

Crawley owned a low-wattage radio station which he operated out of a garage behind the house and reached about a quarter of the parish. He broadcast local events, tides and weather, comings and goings. He also owned a police radio scanner and had just picked up Ray Wilson’s call.

~~~

The tide was readying to change when Crawley arrived and saw Ray Wilson out on the beach digging in the sand with his hands at something.

Heard your call, Ray, Crawley shouted. Nobody else here yet?

If you got a shovel in that damn truck bring it out here, Wilson yelled back.

In fact, Crawley had not only a shovel but several long beanpoles he’d gotten for the garden. He grabbed them, too, just in case they might be useful.

We gotta get him out of this fucking sand before that damn water comes in and drowns us, too, the deputy said as Crawley ran up. Use that shovel where his legs are buried. I’ll pull his arms.

A sheriff’s cruiser skidded to a stop at the dune, its roof rack blazing. Deputy Ron MacMillan jumped out and ran toward the two men. A small sweep of water swirled around them.

C’mon, Ron, Wilson urged, only a little more to go.

They freed the dead man from the sand just as a stronger wave noisily reached up the beach, erasing all sign of their effort before hissing out again.

Crawley, Wilson said, nodding to the nearly filled in hole, drive one of those poles into the sand where we pulled him out. Make sure it’s stuck in hard.

The two deputies dragged the body toward the dune while Crawley worked to secure the beanpole marker. It was a good thing he’d brought along the poles, he thought.

Chapter 2

The body had been carried away from the beach and now lay on the hard road, covered with a yellow rubber sheet. Deputy Ray Wilson stood watch over the dead man while other deputies continued to comb the area looking for only God knows what. Normally, the body would have remained in situ until the coroner had completed his examination but six feet of the Gulf of Mexico now covered the scene.

Sheriff JT Wainscot arrived in his 1968 Corvette. He wasn’t in uniform but instead was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt with its sleeves cut out. His hair looked slept in and he hadn’t shaved. He threw open the car’s door, slamming it hard behind him, and walked straight to the deputy.

You know who he is? JT asked brusquely, gesturing to where the corpse lay. Have any ID on him?

It’s Wade Ferebee, Ray answered. Got his driver’s license from his wallet.

Ah, fuck! Dick Ferebee’s boy.

JT knelt beside the dead man and pulled back the rubber sheet. A face drained of all color met his. Grains of sand crusted around the eyes and in the matted hair. He got back to his feet.

Didn’t they lose their other son in goddamn Iraq? Ray Wilson asked.

That’s right, JT said bitterly. After the war was declared over and done with.

Doc Blanchard coming with the ambulance? Wilson asked after a moment’s pause.

Suppose he’ll drive out himself, JT said distractedly. Then, Goddammit, what the hell was going on here, Ray?

Ray Wilson shook his head.

Damnedest thing I ever saw, he said. Herb Trotter found him buried up to his neck in the sand. Called it in. I was first to arrive on the scene. Don’t know how long he’d been there. At least long enough for the tide to come in and drown him.

JT nodded.

Well, there’s about twelve and a half hours between high tides, he said. Tide’s nearly high now. So the last one was, what? Between 10 and 11 last night. Sound right to you?

Guess so, Sheriff, but this is a mighty high tide. Don’t get one like this often. ‘Course that wouldn’t have anything to do with how long it takes for it to come in.

JT considered what his deputy had just said.

You know, Ray, that might help explain what went wrong. This weird-ass tide. Low tide normally exposes a lot of the beach. But this time it was probably way the hell out. I mean, it could’ve been twice as far out as usual. Somebody here horsing around burying his buddy in the sand could’ve gotten surprised by the tide. Had walked out a ways before digging his buddy in. Misjudged the whole thing coming up like that. But what the hell could they have been doing to begin with, huh?

JT walked over to the beach for a look. The tide had crept up far beyond the normal high-water mark. He returned to the road.

Yeah, we had to hurry like hell ourselves to get him out, Wilson said. That storm off Galveston’s been kicking up the waves which didn’t help none either. We were lucky to get that pole driven in. Good thing Crawley had come along."

Looks like Doc Blanchard’s here, JT noted, turning at the crunching sound of wheels passing by.

Blanchard was a local doctor whose job was to initially confirm a suspicious death for the Sheriffs. The state medical examiner would later do a complete autopsy to determine the exact cause. He parked down the road past the Sheriffs’ cruisers. The ambulance which had followed him pulled over to the side and stopped.

Morning, Doc, JT greeted Blanchard.

Nice day, Blanchard replied dryly. What’ve we’ve got here?

Wade Ferebee, JT said. Drowned.

Water’s not usually deep here, the doctor commented and raised the victim’s shoulder to examine his back. A glob of foam oozed from the man’s mouth as he was turned to the side. Must’ve stepped in a hole. I don’t see any injuries. I’ll check more carefully once we get him to the hospital. Did he just wash up on the beach?

He was buried in the sand up to his neck, JT said matter-of-factly. Right now I don’t know what we’ve got here. Accidental death due to stupidity or something more sinister. Somebody had to put him there. I’m inclined to go with the stupidity angle considering this crazy tide.

The things people get themselves into, Blanchard sighed. Then he gave JT a disapproving look and said, Nancy’s still out of town, I see.

~~~

JT had stopped by his house to freshen up. He’d still been in bed when Ann Creely called from the office. She’d stressed the urgency that he get to the scene ASAP. He’d thrown on the clothes he’d worn the night before and was out of the house like a shot. Now, showered, shaved and in uniform, he was on the way to the Sheriff’s Station in Bonnet.

James Thaddeus Wainscot, who’d gone by JT since high school, was coming up for re-election in St. Julian parish. He was well ahead in the polls. His only competition was a shrimp boat owner who lived in Cleopus. JT’s having broken up a major drug ring not all that long ago had given him a leg up. Back then he’d been partnered with a federal drug agent named Dennis Palmer, who was African-American. That in itself had raised a few eyebrows among the locals but JT had brushed off the ugly talk and the two men even became friends. Palmer later returned to New York where he was originally from. And where JT’s one-time fiancé Nancy Lingo and her sponsor, art gallery owner Lena Blasko had recently gone to attend an opening of Nancy’s work.

~~~

You should go home, Ray, JT told his deputy the minute he walked in.

Wanted to finish my report, Ray Wilson yawned, sitting at a desk.

Well, good work. Now take off.

You want coffee? Ann Creely asked as he passed by. Yeah, and better get Ray a cup before he leaves, too. Looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

Ray Wilson followed the sheriff into his office.

Wonder how many people might’ve been there at the beach? JT said. Had to have been more than just Wade. I don’t see him burying himself. Of course nothing’s impossible. Could’ve been some crazy-ass party going on. But why do something idiotic like that? Doesn’t make sense.

Kids these days do stupid things, JT, Ray said. Hell, you know how it is. Too much to drink, maybe a little blow. Some weed. Passion Pit used to be more of a place for making out. Now it’s become a big party scene.

Ann Creely knocked on the door and brought in two cups of coffee. She placed them on JT’s desk and left without saying anything. Her eyes were red and teary.

Ann’s a close friend with Jean Ferebee, JT explained to the deputy. She’s the dead boy’s mother. I’m going to call them and break the news as soon as we’re done here. Then I’ll drive over to their house.

You want to me to ride along? Ray offered.

No, thanks. Go get some rest. This thing might take awhile before we get to the bottom of it.

Chapter 3

It went hard at the Ferebees. Somehow the loss of their first son had been almost bearable—well, at least understandable—when that devastating news was delivered with a knock on the door. He had died as a soldier, they’d thought, defending his country. But this.

Wade had a sister in school at LSU. There was also another brother in Lafayette. JT had offered to call him but the boy’s father had told him no, he’d take care of that. The sheriff had phoned Ann Creely and asked if she could drop in on Mrs. Ferebee. Someone else could handle the dispatching, he’d said. She’d promised to come as soon as possible.

As JT was about to leave, Dick Ferebee pulled him aside.

Can you tell me how this happened? he asked. I mean, there’s not anything you’re leaving out, is there?

Like I said, Mr. Ferebee, right now I don’t know what the hell was going on. Could’ve been a bunch of kids partying and things got out of hand. Or maybe Wade was playing a joke that backfired.

You think he could’ve done this to himself? Dick Ferebee asked angrily. That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!

I agree, JT said. But we’ve got to cover everything, no matter how insane it might appear. Look, let me ask you this. How about Wade’s friends? I mean, was there one he hung out with mostly?

He and Clay Evans went around together a lot. They both worked on Jim Swanson’s boat. Clay lives up in Cleopus. Hard to keep track of those boys these days. They’re almost always wherever and everywhere.

Ann Creely should be here any minute now, JT said and clapped the man on his shoulder. I’m so sorry about this, Mr. Ferebee. Let me know if you need anything.

~~~

Diana Brennan hung up the phone in her office at the Raquelle Harbor City Hall. The building was a small, pretentiously cute and shingled one-story affair that would’ve felt more at home on Cape Cod. The mayor’s office stood across the hall from hers and afforded a better view of the harbor.

The sheriff still isn’t there, she snapped irritatedly. I’ve already left him a message. Then she sniffed, You’d think he might at least show a little courtesy to another agency!

Raquelle Harbor police had picked up the initial call about a dead body having been found on the beach. Both agencies monitored each other’s radio frequencies. The police dispatcher decided that since the Sheriff’s department was on the way to the scene and it was in their jurisdiction, they could well handle it. Probably an accidental drowning. Be just paperwork and notification. No need for them to roll. Raquelle Harbor police would be busy enough later on with the crowds already beginning to arrive for the Pirates Festival. However, subsequent radio chatter on the Sheriffs’ channel had indicated that there might be something more to the dead man than merely routine. And once Chief Diana Brennan got wind of exactly what was going on, she wasn’t about to be left out.

It’s St. Julian’s case, Sandy Bettle reminded her. Unless they ask for our help, we really have no business jumping in. Besides, I’m sure JT will want to include you.

Bettle had been a ten-year veteran with the St. Julian Sheriff’s department and Sheriff Wainscot had considered him to be one of his best deputies. While his leaving had left a big hole in the department, JT had understood the reason behind it. Sandy’s wife, Sue Ellen, had recently had a baby and her job with the local bank as a teller didn’t offer any maternity leave. Money had been tight before and now with the new baby having arrived, the Bettles were in a financial fix. JT had tried to wrangle some overtime for his deputy but the budget just couldn’t handle it. Next thing anyone knew, Diana Brennan had called Sandy at home one night to make him a very generous offer, which included the rank of lieutenant. Sandy had faced a difficult decision but in the end, need had won out over loyalty.

The city force had increased from 3 to 12 officers over a short period of time due to the lobbying of its Chief of Police. A larger department gave her greater credentials, which was of great importance since she was running for a seat in the state legislature.

Raquelle Harbor was fast becoming the poster town for growth over the entire state. Which was ironic since it was located in the poorest parish. But big money had come to town.

I know it’s their jurisdiction, she emphasized wearily. "But it’s right next door