The New Marshal in Town

By Richard Weter

Ex-Navy SEAL Brody Rockland retired from the military with a war-related injury, but not wanting his talents wasted, he takes up the torch against criminals by joining the US Marshals Services. Stationed in Washington, DC, it doesn't take Rockland long to run afoul of the Russian mob and become an impediment to their existence. While things were heating up for Rockland in Washington, a disreputable federal judge goes missing from the Eastern Federal District out of New Orleans, Louisiana. The director uses the opportunity to test Rockland's skills while in Louisiana searching for the missing judge. At the same time, giving Washington a cooling-off period.

Rockland, single, handsome, and rich, with skills for making things right, must prove his worth in a new environment while learning the ways of people as foreign to him as the Afghan tribesmen he previously lived with and fought beside. Rockland soon realizes he must fall back on his training as a Navy SEAL to carry him through the tough spots, including the women in his life, particularly a lovely Cajun deputy sheriff whom Rockland develops feelings for. Of course, there is more at stake than just the ladies. There is a crime to solve, a judge to rescue, and evil people to deal with, including the Russian mob.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684984428

Book preview

Prologue

The man lay on his back, contemplating the death he believed was inching closer with each passing heartbeat. He stared straight overhead, looking to the heavens for answers, but all he saw was blackness laced with pain.

He had no idea how long he had lain there or where he was. He had lost all track of time. When he first regained consciousness, he could not see. He thought he was blind.

Pain roared through his head in searing waves, but as each one passed, he tried to remember what had brought him to his current condition. Afraid to move because of the pain, he allowed his mind to wander, trying to recall what had brought him to this moment. A sliver of insight limped across the neurons of his brain. Through the fog, he remembered being struck at the front door of his own home by an unknown intruder. He puzzled over that, but only briefly before drifting back into nothingness.

1

The pilot’s voice announced their descent to the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans and brought Deputy Marshal Brody Rockland out of his nap. He was having muscle cramps from trying to cram his six-four broad-shouldered frame into a seat designed for a much smaller person, and with the Fasten Seatbelt sign on, he couldn’t just stand up and stretch.

Once the administrative wheels began rolling, it didn’t take long for them to find a crisis to test his skills and his newly appointed position as a special investigator for the U.S. Marshals Service. It also worked to get him out of town and the crosshairs of the Russian mob that he had so recently angered. His new job contained one perk. He was now on equal footing with chief deputies who are routinely in supervisory positions, running offices all over the country. That meant he got to run his own show, more freedom, and more responsibility at the same pay.

Aside from not getting killed by the Russian mob, his mission was to track down a long-standing federal judge from Louisiana’s Eastern District that had gone missing. Brody was to head up an investigation to find the judge, return him to the fold, and bring to justice those responsible, even if it turned out to be the judge himself.

Brody’s boss believed that not only was his life in danger from the Russians, but too much publicity might overshadow the ongoing Senate hearings on political corruption. Brody thought his idea of rooting them out of their dens and dealing permanent justice, as needed, would accomplish a better end. A difference in opinion that held little weight with the Department of Justice.

The touchdown was flawlessly smooth. A recent rainstorm had washed the air and the tarmac clean, leaving the afternoon sky clear, bright, and beautiful. As the plane taxied to the terminal, Brody felt a wave of anxious excitement. He was looking forward to meeting his local contact and getting the investigation started.

Brody followed the other passengers deplaning ahead of him, looking for transportation, but Brody’s option was to meet a local marshal to give him a ride. Unfortunately, he had no idea whom he would meet, only her name, Holly DuBois. Brody reasoned that if he waited for the room to clear, he could hook up with whoever was left.

At last, Brody stood alone, facing a petite dark beauty with short curly black hair, wearing an extremely short blue skirt with a matching suit jacket over a silky red blouse and matching shoes. She held a piece of cardboard with a neatly drawn five-point star within a circle, representing their badge. He hadn’t seen her because she was shorter than the rest of the passengers, even in her high heels.

Brody picked up his armored attaché case and walked toward her, smoothing his fingers through his black hair.

Hi, he said. You going with me?

No, you’re going with me, at least you are if your name is Brody Rockland and you have Federal ID in your pocket.

Brody handed her his ID folder. She studied it for a moment, comparing the photo to the man, then handed it back. Without speaking, she walked away toward a bank of elevators.

He hurried to catch up. Must I merely assume you to be Deputy DuBois, or are you going to show me your ID? I showed you mine, now show me yours.

He smiled jokingly when he caught up with her. She dug a wallet identical to his from her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

Satisfied?

He studied it then handed it back, Most assuredly. Are you going to be my guard, my watchman, and my protector to keep me out of trouble?

No, I am going to be your chauffeur and bartender.

She pressed the single elevator button, and a door slid open. Inside, she pressed the down button. There were only two floors.

First, I am going to get you checked in at your hotel, and then we are going for food. I’ve starved my ass off waiting for you. They crossed the lobby to the baggage carousel. Should you wonder, I tote no man’s poke, she announced, walking past the conveyor belt.

Brody smiled and gathered his luggage. As you can see, I carry my own poke and have no expectations of you carrying mine, my work, or any other portion of baggage I might bring along, thank you very much. The only expectation I have for you is to treat me like a brother marshal, and for that, you will earn my everlasting respect and gratitude.

He gathered his luggage and bumped the exit door open for her to pass.

Uh-huh, she responded and shouldered past him.

And further, if you are trying to get a rise out of this old Washington white boy, I can tell you right now it isn’t going to work. First, I am not that old, and second, I’m from Missouri. Washington is just where I was assigned. Brody hurried to catch up. Her short legs and high-heeled shoes did little to slow her down. I will also venture to say that while you may have a better tan than I do, you are not from here either.

She stopped and stared at him. Is that a problem?

Of course not. Just stating a fact. If I had to guess, I would say Jamaica or maybe Cuba, but Jamaica would be my best guess. He left her and wandered the parking area. Where did you park? My pokes are getting heavy.

Holly stood staring at his back with her mouth open.

Hurry up, he yelled back. I thought you were hungry; close your mouth. There are bugs about.

Now she had to hurry to catch up with Brody because of his long legs. She ended up at a black SUV.

Nice, he said, patting the passenger door. I would never guess this to be a government car.

I think the one they picked out for you is fifty shades of gray, she grumbled as she popped the locks. If I could get my leg high enough, I would kick your ass, but since I can’t, get in. I’m driving.

Brody laughed and stored his bags in the rear seat. He climbed into the front passenger seat and watched as Holly struggled. Her short tight skirt combined with the high step exposed more leg than intended.

Nice legs, Brody offered. Can I give you a boost?

No! she said, finally hoisting herself onto the driver’s seat.

Brody was staring out his side window, silently laughing while she fastened her seat belt.

Holly cranked the engine, then dropped it into gear.

Sexist! she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

"Now that I am over my laughing fit, I will admit that I have trouble climbing into these behemoths myself.

With your long legs? I don’t see how.

Bullet wound.

What happened? Did someone shoot you in the ass?

Close. My left leg is not as it appears. It’s missing some pieces and held together with plates and screws. I just recently got out of rehab. I go every so often to Walter Reed Medical Center.

Isn’t that military?

It is. I was in the navy. Several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.

The navy! In Afghanistan? Now you’re pushing my leg.

Water is where you find it. Navy SEAL. Sea, air, land, and all that.

Now I suppose you are going to tell me some Taliban type shot you for messing with one of his women.

It wasn’t because of a woman, but yes. He sat silently, watching the buildings flash by as he relived the story. We were on a two-day extraction mission of an asset that had been very helpful to us. Just outside of Kabul, we were caught in an ambush. As soon as our contacts arrived, the enemy opened fire with an RPG straight into where our communication team had set up. They were up in the rocks above us and were both killed instantly. I got hit by shrapnel from the explosion and then hit in the front of my left leg with a 7.62 round. It chipped the bone and clipped an artery on its way to ripping out a golf ball-sized exit wound. My corpsman dragged me to safety and filled my wound with Celox to stop the bleeding. Then he wrapped me with so many bandages that I looked like a mummy. We were outflanked, outnumbered, and outgunned.

So what did you do? Crawl across the road and single-handedly wipe out the enemy?

Not exactly. I called in a mortar strike on the enemy’s position which, I may have failed to mention, was just across the road. The mortars quelled the attack but left me two dead and every man in my squad wounded, including me and my corpsman. He had spinal damage. He got hit in his back, just below his armor, with shrapnel, from a short falling round. He ended up paralyzed for a while. We also lost our package. That almost brought my military career to an end.

Almost, she stammered. You’re razzing me. I mean, you really are aggravating me, right? You just made all that up to make me feel bad.

You asked, he said. All I can say is that’s my story, and I am sticking to it. At least until I can think up a better one.

You ass, she said, switching lanes. Now, I don’t know whether to thank you for your service or hit you with something for making me feel like an idiot.

Well, since I don’t like getting hit with things, how about calling a truce. Later I will buy you a drink for a peace offering.

What about your corpsman? You said he was paralyzed. What happened to him?

His story was the only miracle of the whole debacle. They got him back to the States, and some sharp-eyed, steady-fingered surgeon removed the shrapnel and got him walking again. He lives by a lake in South West, Missouri, and chases fish in his new bass boat. Unlike me, he knew when to quit.

Brody watched the skyline flow past as Holly wove through heavy Friday traffic. Since she hadn’t thrown anything at him, he took it that the truce was holding. Mind if I ask? Just where are we going?

New Orleans is a late-night city. Parking is sparse at best, but we won’t have to worry about that because we have reserved parking at the hotel. See that tall building rising above the rest? That’s the Hilton Riverside Hotel, and it’s within walking distance of the Riverwalk that we just drove past.

Holly pulled into the hotel’s unloading area, and a valet ran out to collect her car. Brody got his bags, then followed her through the atrium to the registration desk.

Here you go, Holly said, handing him a pen. I reserved it, but you sign in and pay for it.

Brody handed the clerk his credit card. She returned it with two keycards.

Are you going up, or would you like for us to put your bags in your room? the clerk asked.

Please. Just lay the bags on the bed, don’t try to unpack. He gave the bellhop a tip. Then turned to scan the lobby. Okay, I’m officially here, so now what? Do they have good food here?

Probably, but you are not going to get off that easy. I hope that injured leg of yours can transport you back to the Riverwalk because that is where we are going.

That sounds fine, but shouldn’t we get started on the case? Brody would like nothing better than to wine and dine with the lovely Holly, but that was not the reason for being there. Let’s grab something here, and you can fill me in. I’ll take you out later for a nice dinner and a drink or two.

Holly was disappointed. He was kind of cute, but maybe she had already hassled him enough for a while. Besides, Brody outranked her.

2

There are several restaurants. Take your pick, Holly told him, pointing to a map on the wall.

Brody picked the closest, a sandwich shop. They chose a table away from people and ordered. Brody wanted a beer but thought it inappropriate since he was new in town and wasn’t sure how much of Holly’s rhetoric was just bluster and showing off for the new marshal in town. He ordered water. Holly followed suit.

Now tell me about our missing judge, he said. As far as information goes, they just shoved me on a plane and sent me here.

I made copies of the reports for you, but the folder is in my car. You can get it later.

Just hit the high notes, please. Bring me up to date. Someone mentioned Houma. Was that where they took him from?

Yes. I should say that appears to be the case because right now, we don’t know anything for sure. Judge Ripton Armetor is our missing magistrate. He is from the Houma area, barely in the Eastern District, but he holds court in this city. His bench is right upstairs from our office, where I will take you Monday morning. Armetor took some vacation time and presumably went to his house outside Houma in Terrebonne Parish. Again, I say presumably because that was what he told his office and his wife.

Is Armetor known for absenteeism?

He is. Especially lately. He’s getting older, and I’m sure he’s tired of listening to all the bullshit. Rumor is, he’s getting ready to retire. He’s the senior judge, so he gets to handpick his cases. It leaves him lots of free time. He’s a very secretive man. He keeps to himself, not mixing with the lowly working class, but I understand he slaps lots of backs at social functions. If he has any close friends, we don’t know them. She paused for a moment. The truth is, no one liked Armetor. No one trusted him, and there is a hint that the Justice Department is looking at him for some maleficence in his office. Of course, we don’t know that.

Of course, we don’t, Brody smiled.

Wait a minute. You know more than you’re letting on.

I know there is an ongoing investigation.

Does it have anything to do with the judge’s disappearance?

Brody shrugged. No idea.

Uh-huh, she grunted. Anyway, the judge lives here in a condo with his estranged wife, Cecie. According to the original report to the NOPD, he left Friday after court was out, but was supposed to be home for a Thursday morning hearing but never showed. His wife made a missing person report to the New Orleans PD, Thursday morning.

Isn’t that a bit odd? I mean calling the local PD instead of his department?

Maybe. I’ve never met the woman, but we need to talk to her. I haven’t followed up with her because I haven’t been able to find her. I tried calling her again just before you landed, but still no response. Anyway, she called the local police, and they went to her home to make the initial report. I drove to the condo, but no one answered the door or the phone.

So the next question is, where is Mrs. Armetor? Could she be among the missing as well?

Who knows. Anyway, I saw no signs of a break-in, so that was about as far as I could go there. NOPD did ask the Terrebonne Sheriff’s Department to check his vacation home, which they did, with the same results. I talked to his office people and took statements from them yesterday. Those are in the folder.

What about the court case? The reason he had to be back in court Thursday morning?

Holly leaned back in her chair. Not a clue. If he had something scheduled, his office didn’t know about it. So what’s next?

I say let’s eat, then go see Mrs. Judge.

3

After eating, they loaded into Holly’s SUV. Holly handed Brody his copies of the reports, then they headed for the judge’s home. The condo sat on the southwest edge of New Orleans proper, in a fourplex that overlooked Lake Cataouatche. There might have been a beautiful view on a clear day, but today, the lake was blanketed beneath a thick layer of fog.

The condos were three-story brick with a three-car garage on the bottom floor with garage doors in the rear and a small space in front for visitor parking. Concrete steps in front led to a community walkway and the living area on the second floor. Bedrooms were on top.

No one uses a front door anymore, Brody said. Drive in and park. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that there is an elevator to the top.

Now, we climb the steps, she said.

Interesting layout, Brody remarked.

No one answered his knock, and no one picked up the phone that they could hear ringing inside, so Holly left another message.

What now? Holly asked.

While I am all for watching you kick down the door in that short skirt, I think we might try the neighbors first.

That’s your second sexist remark, she said.

"Oh, sorry. Was that a problem?

No, just keeping track. As long as you are looking, you are still alive.

The adjoining neighbor, Mrs. Keets, was home. She told them she saw Mrs. Armetor leave just after the police left Thursday morning.

I figured the judge was out of town again, Keets said. Cecie typically leaves when he does, so I didn’t think much about it, but the police being there was a bit odd.

They talked about that for a while, but she had nothing worthwhile to add. No one lived in the other two units.

That got us nowhere, Holly said, returning to the car.

When you have nothing, our current situation, it is usually best to cover our basics. Leave nothing to chance. We will need phone records and search warrants for both homes and his office, but since we are on a fact-finding mission, let’s do what we can on our own. I suggest we drive out to Armetor’s vacation home.

You do realize that the house is fifty or sixty miles away, and the parish sheriff’s office already checked it?

All the more reason for us to check again. Most patrolmen, sent out to check a house, will walk around it and shake the doors. If they don’t find a smashed window or a busted door, they pronounce it good and drive away.

Okay, Houma, here we come.

Holly cranked the engine and headed for US Highway 90. Holly had entered Armetor’s address into her GPS and followed directions down US 90 then across the southern portion of Houma. She occasionally glanced in Brody’s direction, trying to get a read on his mind while he read reports. She hadn’t learned much by the time they entered a pool table flat field southwest of Houma, where the subdivision lay. Brody wondered if the road would be still above water in a storm. The empty field ended at the big fancy sign Black Bayou Estates that spanned a rock-and-concrete security gate.

Odd name, Brody said.

My guess is it’s a play on the name of the bayou that runs near here. Bayous usually have the descriptive name last, and I know that Bayou Black is close by.

The security gate had a guardhouse but no guard, and the gate stood open.

Maybe they only lock it at night, Holly said and started to drive through.

Stop the car, Brody said, then jumped out to examine the gate closely. After a bit, he returned to his seat. The entrance has a keypad for residents and probably opens and shuts automatically at a particular time, morning and night, but we need to confirm that.

The road branched right and left with a street sign in the middle, announcing Alverez Lane with arrows pointing in the direction of even and odd house numbers.

Brody checked the address in the report.

To the right, he said, and Holly made the turn.

Brody pondered the name. Alverez, he said. Is that a person I should know?

Wynn Alvarez would be my guess. A local contractor that thinks he’s important. He may be the developer. He and his wife, Layla, formerly Layla Delgado, recently built a fancy new clubhouse on the golf course they own in Thibodaux. Now they call it a country club. He also runs what he calls a car lot but sells anything he can get his hands on, lawful or not. The lot is managed by Layla Delgado’s oldest brother, Castel. You probably haven’t heard of the Delgado family yet, but being married to Layla partners Alvarez with money. The Delgado name means big money and power in Lafourche Parish, just north of us. They seem to be leaking deeper into Terrebonne Parish. Maybe Alvarez built the subdivision and named it after himself?

Really, Brody exclaimed. You mean our missing judge owns a home in a mafioso’s housing development?

Down here, it would be the Dixie Mafia if there were such a thing.

I thought the word Dixie had been declared null and void by the politically correct crowd?

Yeah, Holly said, allowing anger to enter her voice. Just think, a vast outlaw organization that pushes drugs and kills people doesn’t raise an eyebrow until the counter culture movement declares their name a Southern expletive. So now, do people complain of criminal activities? No! They bitch about the name.

Way of the world, Brody said, keeping track of addresses. Not many completed homes. It must be a fairly new project. He pointed to the last house on the inner circle of the cul-de-sac. I believe that would be the judge’s house. Nice location, with a view.

The house was built on the manufactured rim of a small artificial lake. It was constructed mainly of wood and rock material to give it a rustic look. Behind the house, the yard sloped down to the water, and the lake lay within a semicircle of houses. The judge’s house was similar to homes around it, except it had a second story. The two-car garage floor was at ground level, and the front of the home sat on a man-made hill of dirt-covered rocks.

Big house on a big lot, Brody said. Maybe it befits the prestige of the judge’s office.

They stopped in the street, leaving the driveway open, then climbed the outside steps to the front entrance. The porch was recessed and only wide enough for a standard reinforced door with small windows on either side to allow someone inside to see who was calling. There was broken glass scattered on the floor from the broken porch light and plastic from the demolished doorbell button.

What did I tell you about patrolmen checking the house? Brody said as he bent down to examine the remains of the buzzer. The doorbell had a video link. Next, he tried the latch. Locked.

Since the doorbell was broken, he beat on the door and called out the judge’s name. No response.

I don’t suppose you have a key? he asked.

Afraid not, Holly replied. Never got to the judge’s inner circle.

Something caught Brody’s eye as he started down the steps. He bent down to look.

Blood, he said and pointed to some rusty smudges low on the wall.

The rusty spots spread across a short expanse of the wood flooring. The spray fanned across the siding, and around a dark hole in the wood. The hole was circled with brass residue.

This looks like a bullet hole, he said, and the brown splatter looks like blood. The blood on the shattered glass means it was broken before the shooting. He stood up and brushed off his hands. Whoever checked the house probably never got out of their car or they would have noticed this.

I think you’re right. It certainly isn’t hard to see if you look. Someone got shot, but was it Armetor or his assailant? Holly stood and looked around, taking in the three surrounding houses. We might have a witness in one of the other homes, she said.

Maybe. Brody came down the steps to join her. Can’t answer the who question without a DNA test, but I believe Armetor had visitors at the door. Someone broke the light and the doorbell, so he couldn’t see them. There was a struggle, and the judge shot his assailant in the leg. It should help get a search warrant, or we can use it for justification to force an entry if we have to.

They crossed the driveway, trying the garage doors as they went. Both were locked. They turned the corner toward the lake. A barely discernable trail led to a boat ramp where a small boat could be launched.

Brody drew Holly’s attention to some indentations in the mud and grass beside the ramp. Something wide and flat ran up onto the dirt. A large flat-bottomed boat, maybe?

Airboats have bottoms like that, she said. And the shallowness of the water would not stop it.

There was space for parking, but the undisturbed grass and weeds indicated little use.

A door from the garage led onto a flat patio of concrete running out from the back of the house. A gas grill sat next to the steps, away from the house. They could see the pilings that supported the house from the rear, allowing water to run beneath it during a significant storm. It left an outside storage space beneath the living quarters. A flight of steps ascended from the concrete to a wooden deck at piling height, where another door led into the house.

Kitchen, Brody said, looking in a window.

Both doors were locked. Past the upper deck was an extended bay window.

The top floor would contain the master bedroom, indicated by a balcony that jutted out from the house, offering an excellent lake view. Each house had a green zone that blended into what looked like a community greenway area adjoining the lake.

4

Holly and Brody were admiring the view while talking about the case when they heard a car approach. The car pulled into the driveway.

Who could that be? Holly asked.

A car door slammed, and one of the garage doors began to open.

Brody took off running. He rounded the corner to find an older dark blue Nissan four-door sedan parked in the driveway. The garage door was closing. Brody quickly placed his foot into the safety beam, stopping the door, then reversing it. Inside stood a startled middle-aged lady with Hispanic features. Her arms were full of bags, and she was dragging a vacuum cleaner.

Brody dug his ID wallet from his pocket and held it out for her to see.

Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but we are deputy US marshals. I’m Brody Rockland, and this is Holly DuBois. We are conducting an investigation related to Judge Armetor. I need to know who you are?

I’m the cleaning lady.

Okay, I might have guessed that from the vacuum cleaner, but why are you here today?

I come on Mondays to clean the house.

This is Friday. Why are you here today, and who are you?

I was sick Monday, so I come today.

Have you talked to Judge Armetor this past week, Holly asked?

I called him Sunday to tell him I was sick. After that, no, but I must clean the house. I always clean house every week.

She turned and started toward the inside steps that led from the garage into the house.

Wait, Brody called out. She stopped and turned. I am afraid that we can’t let you go in there. Brody unfolded some faded lawn chairs that were leaning against the wall. Please have a seat. We need to talk. Are you aware that the judge is missing?

No, I did not know, she said dropping into the chair Brody had offered.

What’s your name? Holly asked.

Pauline Hammond. I live in Thibodaux and have cleaned the judge’s house since he moved here. I need the money. I clean every week. He said no one would be here this weekend, and I wanted to change linen, just in case. I keep the house very clean. When I come back next Monday, I will have less to do. The judge pays me by check each month.

Mrs. Hammond, do you have a key to the house? Brody asked.

Yes, but I never use it. I use the keypad for the garage door and the alarm on the wall by the door.

Was the alarm on when you came in today? he asked

No, the alarm was not on.

Brody asked, Does Armetor normally use the garage door to come and go or the main door upstairs?

He just drives in and parks.

Is that his car? Brody pointed to a white late-model Cadillac setting in the bay closest to the living area.

Yes.

Then I suggest we take a quick look inside since you were nice enough to open the door and invite us in. Just to make sure there are no surprises, Brody said,

Don’t you need a warrant? she asked.

Ah, they learn so quickly, Brody said in an aside to Holly. Mrs. Hammond, the judge is missing. No one has heard from him, and his car is still in his garage. We will be getting a warrant, but right now, we need to take a quick look inside and make sure he isn’t lying in his bathtub, gasping his last breath.

Hammond placed her hand over her mouth. Oh, I did not think. You said he is missing?

Yes, it was reported Thursday. Now, can we have the key so we can check the rest of the house?

Hammond rummaged through her purse until she came up with the key and handed it to Brody. You won’t need it. The inner door is never locked.

Really, Brody said. That seems strange. He has a security system, then leaves the door unlocked.

The judge is a little odd sometimes, Hammond smiled. He doesn’t set the alarm when he is in the house. I believe he has tripped it in the past.

Brody, did you see this? Holly pointed to what looked like fresh oil drippings on the floor of the empty bay. According to the file, Armetor only has one car, and this was a new house when he moved in.

So someone else has been parking in the garage. He turned to the housekeeper. Mrs. Hammond, do you park in the garage when you are here?

No. Always the driveway.

Does Armetor have any regular friends that visit? Holly asked.

Mrs. Hammond looked everywhere in the room except at the two marshals as though trying to make up her mind what to say.

Mrs. Hammond, Brody said. Tell us the truth.

I should not be telling you this, but Mr. Armetor has a lady friend here sometimes. I don’t know who she is. I never met her.

Then how do you know it is a lady friend? Holly asked.

Because I also do the laundry. I recognize signs of a woman. Once, she left some undergarments in the clothes hamper. Very small undergarments.

Thank you, Mrs. Hammond. We are going to take a look inside the living area. Would you please not touch anything? Just stay right here in your seat until we return. Understand? Will you do that for us?

Yes. I will sit here and wait for you.

Brody walked to the middle of the room to scan the garage before climbing the short run of steps into the house. The garage was spacious. The floor extended beneath the home’s living quarters, leaving space for a shop, including power tools and storage. To one side sat a concrete and steel structure resembling a small room. The door stood open.

Brody took a quick peek inside and recognized it for what it was.

Storm shelter, he declared. They’re everywhere in Missouri.

Brody led Holly up the short flight of steps to the main floor. They stood to the side while he tried the latch. It opened. Staying low, looking for threats, he stepped onto the kitchen landing. Nothing caught his attention. It was dark inside with the shades drawn, but not so dark he couldn’t make out the room. He reached for the light switch beside the door frame and flipped it on.

5

Brody said, Looks empty, but there is the smell.

Once a person has encountered the horrible stench of death, they never forget it. Both marshals had steeled themselves before opening the door, but the odor still came as a jolt. They dreaded what they would find, but knew they had a job to do.

The kitchen countertops held leftover food. Cooking utensils were strewn about. Dirty dishes lay in the sink, needing to be washed.

A small breakfast nook in front of the bay window held a table setting for two. Doors led from the kitchen into the laundry room and a half-bath. No bodies.

They stepped through an archway into the dining area and then through another arch directly into the entrance foyer, where they found clear evidence that a confrontation had taken place. A table and lamp were crushed to the floor as if someone had fallen on them. What looked like blood was pooled on the floor tiles. The living room was an open area outlined with furniture and looked untouched.

Watch your feet. There’s blood on the floor, Brody said. This does not look good.

They continued down the living room hallway past a vacant room, a bathroom, and finally a home office that someone had ransacked.

We can check this later, Brody said. Let’s go upstairs.

They followed a switchback stairway from the entryway to the upper level. Brody went first, checking around the corners before advancing. The stairs opened into another hallway.

Upstairs, the odor was much more potent. Brody was sure that whatever was putting off the horrible stench would be found in the master bedroom. Leaving the worst for last, they checked the hallway and found two additional empty rooms and a bath.

The master suite filled the entire rear of the upper floor and was vacant. Separate baths with dressing rooms led from each side of the central chamber. They, too, were empty, but each dressing room had a closet. One held a lot of male clothing. The other only had a sprinkling of petite women’s clothing that looked like they might fit Holly. The main room contained the usual furniture, including a king-sized bed, but no bodies, alive or otherwise.

Only one place left to look, Brody said.

The bed was in disarray but did not look like a fight had occurred. More like one, maybe two people had jumped out of bed in a hurry, throwing back the covers.

Brody noticed a stain on the edge of the top sheet near the wall. It looked like dried blood, but lighter as if mixed with another fluid. He stepped closer and