“I don’t know, Mr. Laskey. The investigation is just starting. But in a town this small, Barrett probably knew Jon Rafter.”
Agent Otis Grant spoke up. “Was the officer shot on the porch?”
Detective Casey looked at the African-American FBI agent. “We assume so. We haven’t gone up onto the porch. It’s too dangerous. But we can see a pool of blood on the walkway at the foot of the stairs. The blood trail extends from there to the cruiser.”
Laskey rubbed his chin. “It’s a miracle the officer made it to his cruiser to call in.”
Casey nodded. “Judging by the blood trail there wasn’t much blood left in him when he called in.”
Laskey looked at the cars parked in a small lot on the east side of the house. “Who do these cars belong to?”
“The two pickup trucks belong to what we assume are paying guests. The newer Chevy is a rental to Arcadias Charbonneau. The old pickup is registered to a Damien Charbonneau. The BMW belongs to a family law attorney out of Baton Rouge named Kevin Jepson. The Buick sedan belongs to Ned Hoxley.”
“Are Damien and Arcadias brothers?”
Casey nodded.
“Do they have records?”
“Arcadias is clean as a whistle, not even a speeding ticket to speak of. Damien has a DUI arrest on file. The arrest happened three years ago. Other than the DUI, Damien is squeaky clean too.”
“Why would two brothers want to rent rooms here?”
Detective Casey shrugged. “Maybe they’re romantics and brought girlfriends. We’re only estimating the number of people inside the home.”
“So neither one of the brothers is married?”
Casey nodded. “Both are single. Damien is a lifelong bachelor. Arcadias is divorced.”
Laskey looked up into the sky, noticed the Big Dipper shining brightly. As a kid he always wanted to be an astronaut. Somewhere in high school the ambitious dream died. He wished now he could rocket to the farthest reaches in space and leave this crazy planet far behind. Laskey returned his gaze to the detective. “What do the Charbonneau brothers do for livings?”
“Damien pours concrete. Arcadias was once a history professor at McNeese State University. Now he owns a treasure hunting shop in Grand Island.”
“You said something about a bloody footprint in the art studio. Can we take a look?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Laskey, follow me,” Casey said. The detective led them on a circuitous route, bypassing squad cars and deputies clustered around the sheriff, to the carriage house sitting fifty yards from the main house.
Laskey stopped in his tracks when he saw a metal detector leaning against the carriage house. Otis Grant pulled up beside him. “Looks like the guests have been hunting for treasure, Newt. They sure know how to make themselves feel at home.”
“There’s something weird about this crime scene, Otis.”
Casey turned his head at Laskey’s comments. “Fingerprints have been lifted from the metal detector. We’re waiting to hear back on a definite match, but I’m guessing the prints belong to Damien Charbonneau. The prints from the metal detector match those lifted from inside his pickup truck and on the door handle.”
Kevin Brubaker touched Laskey on the shoulder. “Hey, Newt, you mind if I go back to the car and get on my laptop? I want to check out the social media sites, see if Rafter or the Charbonneaus are Facebook friends with the dead cop, find out where they all went to high school. That’s the easiest way I know to find out if one of them knew the cop.”
“Yeah, go ahead Kevin. What can it hurt?”
Brubaker left as Laskey and Grant followed the detective into the carriage house. Laskey took in the lovely paintings hanging on the walls, as well as the mangled canvas lying on the floor. He also noted the puddle of blood drying on the floor not far from the vandalized painting. Numerous paw prints were visible on the bloody floor, as well as a shoe print.
“We dug a bullet out from the back wall. We’re checking to see if ballistics matches up with any registered firearms owned by the Rafters or the Charbonneaus,” Casey said.
“You’re taking all the right steps and running a good investigation, Jack,” Laskey said. “Just don’t jump to any rash conclusions. Despite what the sheriff thinks, my gut feeling says this isn’t a domestic violence case.”
Detective Casey looked at Laskey. “Don’t underestimate the sheriff, Mr. Laskey. He’s often right. He’s been in this line of work a long, long time.”
“I just can’t see Jon Rafter shooting a cop. He was once a cop himself.”
“We often think we know a person well, but we really don’t. We can’t totally know what is going on inside a person’s head. Inner thoughts are deep and secretive mysteries. And then when you add unstable emotions to the mix, anything can happen.”
Laskey sighed. “So what do you think went down inside this art studio?”
Casey shrugged. “To me it looks like Jon Rafter snapped. In a fit of rage he trashed a painting, shot his dog, and then stomped into the house and took the guests hostage. And then when Officer Barrett came by he shot him.”
“But why would Rafter shoot the officer when he was turning to leave? He wouldn’t have had to do that. It doesn’t add up.”
“Mr. Laskey, you know how this works. We won’t know the motive until an arrest is made, perhaps not even until the case goes to trial.”
“Okay, Jack. Thanks for filling me in. My men and I will stay out of your way. But don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Baton Rouge Resident Agency. I have a lot of resources at my disposal.”
“I’ll keep your offer in mind, Mr. Laskey.”
Chapter 40
On his way back into the parlor, Arcadias stopped at the front door. He bent down and looked through the peep hole. Although the tiny hole limited his vision, he could see multiple cruisers, their light bars flashing red and blue.
None of his carefully hatched plan was playing out the way he wanted, and his erudite mind scrabbled for credible solutions. Two things needed to happen soon, preferably within the next half hour: First, he needed to find the treasure. Second, he needed to leave the house without the lawmen outside knowing it, the treasure secured to his person.
At some point he may need to give up on finding the Lafitte gold and concentrate on making his escape. But he hadn’t yet reached that point. He still held out hope he would soon hold doubloons in his hands. That was his destiny, and he couldn’t deny its fulfillment, at least not yet.
Arcadias walked into the parlor. Every head turned toward him. He hadn’t felt this much attention since he taught history class at the university.
“What do we do now, Arcadias? We’re trapped,” Iris whined.
Arcadias looked at his girlfriend. “I don’t know yet. I’m still working on a plan. What I do know is that we don’t panic. We can’t allow fear to hamper our reasoning.”
“I can tell you what you should do first, Arcadias,” Rafter said.
Arcadias turned his head, focused his gray eyes on Rafter. “I’m sure you can. But I don’t think I can trust your advice.”
“I’m going to tell you anyway. You need to hook the landline phone back up. Or keep my cellphone or yours handy and turned on. If a negotiator can’t talk to you and gauge your mental state, a SWAT team will knock down the door. You might just buy yourself a couple of hours by simply establishing a communication line, time you can spend looking for your treasure.