Penn Cage 04 - Natchez Burning

“No way in hell,” says Kaiser.

 

Walker doesn’t look so sure. “Every kid in this parish owns a .22. They get BB guns for Christmas when they’re four years old. If you stand outside around here on any given night, you’re gonna hear shots. What if some kid was chasin’ that coon and run him up that tree you dug the slug out of? That’s just what a coon does. One miss would put a bullet right through Henry’s window.”

 

“Why would a kid fire with a lighted window right there?” Kaiser asks. “And why multiple shots? No. You’re reaching, Sheriff.”

 

“Buck fever,” says a new voice from behind us—a voice that sounds almost as amused as it does certain. “There’s prob’ly a ten-year-old kid crappin’ his pants somewhere right now, wondering if he shot a hole in somebody’s bedpan.”

 

As Kaiser turns to argue, the deputies part for the newcomer. I shine Kaiser’s flashlight on a man with a hard, angular, copper-hued face, gold bars on his shoulders, and a gold badge in the shape of the Pelican State gleaming on the breast of his blue uniform shirt.

 

“Who are you?” asks Kaiser.

 

“Captain Alphonse Ozan, state police. Who are you?”

 

Kaiser hesitates before answering, his perceptive eyes taking in the new man. “Special Agent John Kaiser, FBI.”

 

Captain Ozan grins as though at a private joke. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you.” He points at me. “Get that light out of my eyes.”

 

I lower the light but leave it high enough to keep his face illuminated.

 

“What are you doing here?” Kaiser asks.

 

“I was in the area working a drug case, and my CO asked me to stop by and make sure this murder was being handled properly.”

 

“It is,” Sheriff Dennis says in a defensive tone.

 

“Who’s your CO?” asks Kaiser.

 

“Lieutenant Colonel Forrest Knox, Criminal Investigations Bureau.”

 

A brittle silence descends on the group.

 

“Ain’t that some shit,” Sheriff Dennis says under his breath.

 

“What was that?” Ozan asks.

 

“We were talking about the bullets,” says Walker, looking back at the building. “And this coon. Mighty queer situation, I’ve got to say.”

 

Captain Ozan steps forward and prods the dead raccoon with his boot. “We see this kind of tragedy all the time in rural areas. You know what they say about sport shooting these days? Every bullet you fire comes with a lawyer attached.”

 

“It’s a tragedy, all right,” Kaiser remarks. “But I can think of a dozen men who’ll be celebrating tonight.”

 

“Who you talking about?” Captain Ozan asks.

 

“The Double Eagle group.” Kaiser’s gaze is like a laser locked on Ozan’s face. “And the Knox family.”

 

Ozan returns the stare without a word, but he radiates the same energy as a wild animal in captivity—seemingly docile, but capable of lashing out with lethal speed and effect at any moment.

 

“That raccoon is the killer’s idea of a joke,” Kaiser says. “The Double Eagles are laughing their asses off right now.”

 

A strange smile stretches Ozan’s lips. “How do you figure that?”

 

Kaiser smiles back, but the expression contains no goodwill. “When the FBI came to Natchez in the mid-1960s, the Klan wrangled up a mess of rattlesnakes and snuck them into the agents’ hotel rooms. The agents killed all the rattlers and barbecued them in front of their hotel. The Klan guys drove by laughing and whistling. It was all a big game to them. This is the same kind of crap. I’ll bet they’re watching us right now.” Kaiser points across the highway. “I wish I had a thermal scope to scan that tree line.”

 

Everybody turns and peers into the dark field opposite the hospital.

 

“I want a time of death on that raccoon,” Kaiser says.

 

Ozan laughs out loud.

 

“Is he kidding?” asks a deputy from the surrounding darkness.

 

Kaiser’s eyes almost blaze in the dark. “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

 

“How the hell are we gonna get that?”

 

“Shove a thermometer up its ass! Somebody in the Smithsonian will know the cooling curve on a dead raccoon. I want to know how long ago that goddamn ringtail was shot.”

 

“We’ll get it,” Walker says, hoping to keep the peace.

 

“High-tech law enforcement, boys,” Ozan says in a mocking tone. “The FBI wants to send a dead raccoon to the Smithsonian Institute.”

 

Muffled laughter comes out of the dark.

 

Kaiser ignores the disrespect and speaks with military precision. “Has anyone found shell casings out here yet?”

 

“Not yet,” answers a Yankee-accented voice.

 

“You need metal detectors and floodlights out here. Anything that comes out of this field other than grass or dirt, I want it. Bag it and tag it, no matter how trivial it may seem. Find out where the shooter fired from. I’m guessing inside thirty yards, at a perfect right angle to the window glass. That’s how—”

 

“Hold up there, fellas,” Captain Ozan calls. “This is now a state police crime scene, and you’ll be taking your orders from me. FBI assistance has not been requested and won’t be required.”

 

Kaiser can’t hide his shock, and Ozan doesn’t give him time to argue. “If you have any questions, Agent Kaiser, have your SAC in New Orleans call the governor. That’s who we take our orders from down here. Washington’s about as much use to us as tits on a boar hog, which Katrina just proved for all time. You can go back to your sump pumps and your forty-year-old bones. We’ll handle this crime scene.”

 

Kaiser stares at Ozan in furious silence. Though neither man speaks, the air between them seems on the verge of ionizing in a blue flash. The rest of us have become an audience to a confrontation we don’t quite understand. I’m not sure it will end without a blow being struck until Caitlin steps up and speaks to Ozan in a strong voice.