Twenty-two

Photos of a third dead bull painted with a symbol and surrounded by a circle waited on my desk when I reached the office at eight that morning. This one, like the others, had unusual coloring, nearly all buff, very little caramel brown, with a particularly pale area on its side. An eleven-year-old rodeo champion, it weighed close to twenty-two hundred pounds, and its graceful horns extended an impressive six feet. Its name was Simon’s Reassurance, not at all reassuring, however, since where its head used to be was a bloody crater. The symbol on its side was different from the others yet similar, drawn with a thick black marker: a post with two pear-shaped loops at the base, the staff branching out like ribs off a backbone.

I e-mailed Alex Benoit a photo on his Heritage Society account and then called him.

“Nicely drawn,” he said, as if assessing graffiti on a wall rather than a slaughtered bull. “This longhorn killer of yours is an artist. I’m impressed.”

“Forgive me if I have less enthusiasm,” I said. “What I need, like before, is a translation.”

Uncharacteristically, based on our previous encounter, he released a short laugh. “You must learn patience, Lieutenant,” he advised coolly. “Our minds work best when we don’t crowd them with irritation and anxiety.”

“Point well taken,” I agreed, as much as anything to move the conversation along. “Now, the meaning, please.”

“If you must. This symbol is Aya. On the surface, it’s literally the figure of a fern.”

“Tell me more.”

“Like Ako-ben, the call to arms, Aya is Adinkra, from West Africa,” he said. “This is actually a more common symbol, often used on textiles.”

“Okay,” I said. “What does it mean?”

At first a pause, then Benoit said, “I am not afraid of you.” With that, the connection between us became a long, empty silence.

“I didn’t intend for you to be,” I said, wondering why the conversation had taken such an odd turn. Despite the Heritage Society director’s assurance that I’d get used to Benoit, the more I interacted with him, the more he troubled me. “Did I say something to indicate that you should be afraid of me?”

“No,” he said, his voice mocking. “Lieutenant, you’re not paying attention. You asked me what Aya means, and I told you: I am not afraid of you.”

“Ahhh,” I said. “Sorry. I’ve got it.” Putting my irritation with Benoit to the side, I thought about the new symbol’s meaning: “I am not afraid of you.” The killer was taunting us, flaunting that he was in charge. This person, whoever he was, saw himself as superior, and he liked playing games. “Well, thank you, Professor Benoit,” I said, eager to hang up. “This is helpful.”

But then Benoit challenged, “Is it, Lieutenant?”

It took me by surprise. I wasn’t sure how to respond. Why would he doubt that? “Yes,” I said, wondering if perhaps he was looking for more gratitude on my part. But that wasn’t the inflection in his voice. What I heard was contempt. Not knowing what to say, I offered, “I appreciate your assistance. You’re kind to help us.”

For the second time I was ready to say good-bye, but Benoit again stopped me cold, this time by saying, “You know, there’s more going on here than you realize.”

If I’d been ready to hang up, that had changed. Suddenly, the conversation had become interesting. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve considered your situation,” he said. “What if this man is trying to warn you, perhaps not you as an individual, but the police? Based on the meanings of the symbols, that could certainly be his intention.”

“Warn me of what?” I was used to folks playing cop, giving me advice on cases, but something about the way Benoit approached it struck me as downright strange. Every instinct I had was on high alert.

“Maybe he wants you to stop him, to stop the killing.”

What was going on? Of course, Benoit did have a point. On one level, letters and symbols from criminals were sometimes intended not just to taunt police, but to aid in the search: the hunted’s conscious or subconscious way of helping the hunter. There are those criminals who crave the added excitement of knowing police are just one step behind them, of knowing the cops are hot on their trails. They’re thrill junkies, and the danger heightens their excitement.

Yet why was Benoit saying these things? And how serious was it, really?

The insurance companies had to pay out a great deal of money. That was true. And the bad guy deserved to get caught and punished. When we found Joey, I’d tackle the longhorn case head-on, find the creep, and put him out of business. But at that moment, I had the missing boy to think of. More than ranchers losing livestock, there was a human life, that of a small child, hanging in the balance.

“Thanks for your input,” I said, tired of whatever game Benoit played. “But I need to go.”

Distracted, I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. The captain and Buckshot were both in the office, which was good luck. If I corraled them, I could fill them in on the third dead bull and then turn the case over to Buckshot. If everything fell into place, I could be gone by nine, on my way to the sheriff’s department. The night before, David had said they had a strategy meeting on the Warner case planned for nine thirty. I might miss the beginning but would be there for the last half. Earlier, I’d called the captain in charge of the case at the sheriff’s department to offer my services, contrary to regulations, which specified that the local agency was supposed to request my assistance. Fifteen minutes later, David called back, sounding grateful to have the help. If they didn’t want me intruding, they covered well.

I had what I needed from Benoit and was only half listening, again ready to hang up, when the conversation took yet another strange turn. “Lieutenant, you shouldn’t write this guy off as a mere nuisance,” he said. “Doesn’t it make you wonder?”

“About what?” I asked, no longer trying to mask the irritation creeping into my voice. “If you have something to tell me, Professor Benoit, you need to spit it out.”

“Wonder about someone who enjoys killing so much, if he is truly only targeting cattle.”

With that, Benoit went silent. He said nothing, but he didn’t hang up. When the silence endured long enough to become uncomfortable, he said, “It would seem to me that eventually this victim choice would be less than satisfying.”

I’d been told the man was a respected scholar and teacher, but nothing about him rang true to me. Something was wrong.

“Would you elaborate on that, Professor?” I asked.

Again, a long, drawn-out silence. He was toying with me.

“I’m only trying to help, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice level, without emotion. “It seems to me that a person who enjoys killing so much, who is so attuned to the beauty of death, which this person must be to feel compelled to decorate what he’s slain, I only wonder if such a person wouldn’t be drawn to continue to kill. And if he’d want more of a thrill than slaying longhorns.”

“Are we talking about someone who’d graduate to killing human beings?”

A long pause, and then Benoit demurred, “I don’t know. I’m an anthropologist, a student of history, but not a psychiatrist. What do you think?”

Over the years, I’d learned to listen to my intuitions, and they were on full alert with Alex Benoit. “I’m asking for your opinion, Professor,” I suggested. “You’ve made some fascinating points here. Those who murder human beings sometimes begin by torturing or murdering animals. I have a great deal of respect for your viewpoint, and I sense that you’ve given this a considerable amount of thought.”

“You flatter me,” he said, sounding decidedly insincere. But then: “Are you really curious about my theories?”

“Yes, I am.”

Another short laugh. “Well, it makes sense to me that this person, man or woman, takes pleasure in killing,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I believe he’s enjoying playing with all of you in law enforcement as well, showing you how much smarter he is, while leading you down a path.”

The conversation got more alien the longer Benoit talked, yet on another plane, he made sense. That was precisely what the longhorn killer was doing. “Very true. Very perceptive of you,” I said. “Anything more you’d like to share?”

“It seems to me that this man has something planned,” Benoit said, his silky smooth voice intense. “Something more serious than dead bulls.”

For a moment, I said nothing, considering where the conversation was leading. “Again, Professor, are you saying this person is or will be targeting human beings?” I asked.

For the third time, Benoit laughed. “I told you when we met, Lieutenant, that all I can do is interpret the symbols. I have no other expertise in these matters,” he said dismissively. “I do hope I helped you, but I have to go. I’m working at the plantation again today, cataloging the last of the artifacts. I’ll be there all day, tidying up loose ends. Everything has to be done before the hurricane hits, of course.”

After he hung up, I held my cell phone and looked down at it, rethinking the conversation. Was it possible that Benoit was simply trying to be helpful? Maybe he’d become caught up in the case and it had his imagination working overtime.

Twenty minutes later, I’d gone over the new developments with the captain and Buckshot, and I’d filled them in on my tête-à-tête with Alex Benoit. “So what does all that mean?” the captain asked, appearing as confused as I by the discussion. “It sounds ominous, but it’s not unusual for folks to play cop. Maybe that’s all this professor of yours is doing, having fun knocking around possibilities with the police. Some people get off on that.”

“I don’t know, Captain,” Buckshot said, tugging at his mustache in deep thought. “Reminds me of the time when I was still a trooper, and I pulled over a guy driving a fancy silver Porsche for speeding. While I write the ticket, he starts telling me how easy it would be to steal an expensive car, about how all he’d do is pretend to be a valet and hold his hand out for the keys. I ran a check and the license plates weren’t reported stolen, but it smelled fishy enough to make me decide to call for backup and talk to him long enough for them to get there. By then I had a bump on my radio. Turned out the Porsche had disappeared from some high-priced restaurant parking lot before the owner sipped his first cocktail of the night. He’d walked outside, asked the real valet for his car, and found out it’d been stolen.”

“I’m with Buckshot on this, Captain,” I said. “Professor Alex Benoit makes my skin crawl. I want to know more about him.”

Captain Williams shrugged, as if he’d been outvoted. “Okay,” he said. “You both agree, so, Lieutenant, I suggest you do a little scouting around and figure out who this Benoit character is. See if there’s any more there than a healthy curiosity and a little game playing.”

“Well, that’s the thing, Captain,” I said somewhat sheepishly. “I’m not going to be available to do it.”

“Why not?” Buckshot asked, instantly appearing concerned. “Are you okay, Sarah? Maggie and your mom all right? Is something wrong?”

“We’re all fine,” I reassured them both. “But you can handle this, Buckshot, just make some phone calls around Houston, maybe check with New Orleans PD. Check up on this Benoit guy. The thing is, Captain, that I’ve got another case to work.”

“Not that missing boy case,” the captain wailed. I’d been wondering if he knew about my appearance in the morning news but thought maybe not—until he said, “I saw you on the news this morning, Lieutenant, and I’m sure headquarters will hear about it. I was willing to overlook it, not push the point, since I was sure you thought you were doing the right thing. But you’re getting yourself into a world of hurt if you overstep your bounds on this case. The plain truth is that you’re not authorized to be involved in the Warner case.”

As I recounted my morning’s conversation with David, the captain’s anger at my behavior became even more evident. “Sarah, you know that this isn’t the way it works,” he said after he’d followed me back to my office, where I grabbed a few things before heading out the door. “Other law enforcement agencies ask the rangers for help. They request us. Unless they ask for us or the governor orders us to take a look, we don’t move into a case. Plus, they’ve got the FBI, with all their resources, looking for that little boy. What makes you think you can do any better than they can?”

I hated it when he asked questions like that. Sincerely hated it, because he was right, and I had no good answers. So I smiled at the captain and shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll check in with Buckshot later this morning. I’ll keep tabs on the longhorn killings and help as much as possible. But I need to help find that little boy. I can’t look back and live with it if Joey Warner’s murdered or never found and I didn’t at least try to save him.”

Minutes earlier, frowning and shaking his head at me, the captain had looked angry enough to order me to forget such nonsense and go back to work. Now, although he was still scowling, he appeared resigned. I guess we’d been through enough together for him to know that issuing a command probably wasn’t going to change the final outcome. “Okay,” he said. “But make sure that you keep in touch with Buckshot, shoot him ideas. Half the cattle ranchers in southeast Texas are up in arms about these killings. We don’t need them calling the governor, saying we’re not doing our best.”

I slipped my Colt .45 into the holster on my rig, a tooled black leather double belt.

“And stay out of the goddamn newspapers and off the TV,” he said, so frustrated that he practically sputtered. “I don’t want to see your face anywhere associated with this case! You’ve made enough headlines in the past couple of years.”

“Yes, Captain.” I threw my navy jacket over the shoulder of my white cotton button-down shirt, grabbed my weathered saddlebag purse, and headed for the door. “I’ll stay in the background. You can count on it,” I said, and I was gone.