A single police cruiser occupied the front of the modest Granada Street home, when rookie homicide detective William Angelle arrived on scene. The neighborhood lay tucked just off from the construction overtaking Perkins Road, the price for living in the ever-expanding capital city of Baton Rouge. An old Dodge Ram pickup truck sat parked under the beige-colored open garage. Crime scene tape ran from the two sets of brown shuttered windows, on either side of the large entrance way. A female officer at the front door awaited the Detective’s arrival.The officer, who wore glasses and had short brown hair, looked more like a fifteen-year-old boy than someone sworn to protect and serve. Her nameplate read Lafleur.

“What do we have here, officer?”

“Looks like an accident. A neighbor reported a disturbance at this address, but by the time we arrived, things must have settled down. I walked the perimeter and looked in a window and saw the body on the floor.  My partner and I made entry, cleared the house and called it in. The DB is a male Caucasian,” she answered.

“Lead the way, Officer,” he said, and followed her inside the small country style home. The large steel door had three dead bolts and the brown paint gave it a wood appearance. Doors of that type were typical for keeping people out, but sometimes they were for keeping something, or someone, inside. The living room was nothing spectacular, a old brown faux leather couch and love seat. Straight ahead was a nice entertainment center with a pricey television and stereo setup. To the right was a small kitchen area that hadn’t been updated since the 70s. Angelle followed the officer through the dining area to a short hallway on the left.

“He’s in the bathroom,” she said and pointed to the end of the hall. “I’ve seen never anything like it.”

Angelle prepared for the worst, walked to the end hallway and peered inside. The sight and smell of the small cluttered bathroom could have made even the most seasoned detective’s stomach lurch. While serving in Afghanistan, Angelle had seen things sick enough to gag a maggot. They were things he could never forget, some even done by his own hand. The victim was naked from the waist down, with brown running shorts around his ankles. His thin body lay face down in a half inch of raw sewage. Angelle took out his flashlight and shone the beam into the yellow, beige, and brown mess of a room. A mixture of blood and sheetrock coated the back of the victim’s head. The wound looked as if someone had collapsed the entire back of his skull. Smashed into the wall just above the toilet was a round hole, measuring about the size of a bowling ball. Angelle figured the victim to be in his mid to late thirties. He had a small red quarter-sized splotch on the skin of his right buttock cheek. It could have been anything from a bug bite to a bad pimple, but it wasn’t a homicide. Angelle was sure of that.

“Okay,” he said and backed away from the doorway. “He’s on the toilet, something bites him, he tries to stand and slips, smashes his head…why are we even here?”

“You know the drill, Detective. Whenever we come across a body, we call y’all in.”

“Do you have an ID on this guy?” Angelle asked.

“There was some mail on the counter addressed to Dwayne Bentley.”

“Ok,” he answered and walked back down the hallway toward the door. The uniformed officer followed. Just as he was about to step outside, a question popped into Angelle’s head as he looked again at the heavily fortified door.

“How did you get through that door?” he asked Officer LaFleur.

“I keep a ram in my trunk,” she answered and smiled.

Angelle returned the smile and asked, “So he was locked in from the inside?”

“Yes sir.”

“Who called it in?”

Officer LaFleur flipped through her notepad and said, “His name is Chris Davenport.” She pointed across the street. “When we arrived, he was waiting for us. My partner is with him now.”

Angelle nodded a thank you and headed across the street to find the person who started this process. He should have been out solving real crimes instead of being stuck on a guy who probably had a heart attack after a bad bout of diarrhea. Officer Martin had large expressive brown eyes and a nice smile whenever she chose to show it. She stood next to man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties with baggy jeans, a long- sleeved white button-down, and mirrored sunglasses. With his shaggy black hair, bushy eyebrows, and thick handlebar mustache, he looked like a reject from the Village People.

“Thank you, Officer,” he said, and she joined her partner across the street.“Mr. Davenport? I’m Detective Angelle. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your neighbor?”

“Is he dead? Like, really dead?”

“I’m afraid so. Did you know the victim’s name?”

“Dwayne. Dwayne Bentley. Man, I can’t believe he’s really dead.”

“What exactly did you see, sir?”

Davenport cocked his head and said, “There was this fat man—I mean, he was huge, like sideshow fat—well, he followed Dwayne into the house. I saw ’em arguing and few minutes later, the fat man came waddling outside as fast as he could, got into his van and tore out of the place like they had a sale at the Cheesecake Factory. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Angelle nodded.

“Anyway,” the witness continued, “I just had a bad feeling about it. I went over to check on him, but when he didn’t answer, I thought something might have been wrong. That’s why I called y’all.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the man you saw leave the residence? What he was wearing or what he was driving?” Angelle questioned. He figured it was just a formality. He would get the who, what, and where for the dead man’s family to give them a bit of closure, as much closure you can have when someone dies at a young age. He would type it all up and be on to the next case by morning. “So is there anything else?”

“Did I tell you he was fat?” Davenport asked.

Angelle nodded.

“He was a white guy with brown hair and a mustache. I’ll tell you what, he drove a pretty cool van. I think it was a Dodge, but I know for sure it had a Milky Way paint job with a airbrushed mermaid on the side. It had lake pipes and  purple bubble windows.”

“Are you serious?”

“No doubt. It was a sweet ride.”

Angelle thanked him for his time and told him they might follow up for more information later. He turned to go back to his car and Davenport asked, “What did he look like?”

“Excuse me?”

“The body. He was murdered right? What did it look like?” he asked again.

“It appears to have been an accident.”

“An accident? Really?” Davenport said and hung his shoulders in disappointment.

“We’ll get back to you if we have any other questions,” Angelle said and walked away. He jotted down the address from the mailbox, 3457 Granada, as he crossed the street to join the other officers.

“Interesting fellow,” he said to Martin. “I don’t think there’s anything to this. The house was locked up tight and there are no signs of a struggle.”

Just then, a white Impala turned into the driveway. The medical examiner had finally arrived. The sooner she could give him the cause of death, the sooner he could close the dog of a case and get back to solving real homicides. When the diminutive doctor exited the vehicle, Angelle thought she looked more like a high school student than the medical examiner for East Baton Rouge Parish.

“Detective Angelle,” he identified himself as she approached.

“Dr. Taylor,” she returned. “What do we have?”

“Looks like an accident,” he answered and led her to the body, “Something caused him to stand up quickly, maybe the toilet backing up. For there, it looks like he slipped and hit his head against the wall.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said when she looked at the muck of a bathroom. “This was just what I needed to end my day.”

She stepped into the bathroom, squatted over the body and studied it for a few moments. “Blunt-force trauma to the head. I would estimate the time of death at roughly four to six hours ago, but I can give you a better idea once I get him on the table,” she answered.

“Anything jumping out at you?” he asked.

“Not from what I can tell. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle. There is a small bruise on his right buttock. I can tell you more once I get him on the table.”

“Homicide?”

“It looks like an accidental death, but I can tell you more—”

“Right. When you get him on the table. Ma’am, I’ll need that report as soon as possible,” he answered and returned to the front of the house. There was no need for him to be there. This would have been his fourth homicide since joining the unit. Three cases up and three cases down. Granted, none of them were stone-cold whodunits, but nonetheless, he cleared them all. When he walked outside, he checked to see if Davenport was still outside trying to satisfy his morbid curiosity, but by that time, he had disappeared.

Weirdo.

Coming Soon
April 3, 2013