Page 16 of Broken Bayou
He nods. “Yeah, like I said, unbelievable.” He presses play. “Keep watching.”
I struggle to swallow my next sip of coffee.
“Thanks to items found inside that barrel,” the reporter is saying, “the remains were identified as those of Destiny Smith, a fifteen-year-old runaway from Birmingham, Alabama. Her last known location was New Orleans, where she went missing in 2015.” After an appropriate pause, she adds, “Back to you.”
The camera switches back to the studio, with both anchors shaking their heads.
“Tragic,” the man says to his coanchor and to the camera. “We will keep you updated on this story as we receive more information. We’ll be back in just a minute with Grace, live on the bayou.”
I lean back against the booth, speechless. The poor parents of that fifteen-year-old girl. Runaways think any place is better than home, and sometimes, that’s true, but an overwhelming percentage find a place that’s much worse. My heart breaks for that young girl. She needed help, and instead, a monster found her. I wonder what her story was. Where her issues lived. Was it abuse, addiction, both?
Travis pockets his phone. “That’s the second barrel that’s been found.”
I stop my coffee cup midsip. “What?”
“The first one was actually found over a decade ago. It’s been unsolved forever. Then some kids stumble upon this latest one. It’s insane. Chief Wilson called the sheriff. This shit is way out of our league. Then the sheriff called the state police, and now with the second victim being from out of state, the state police are talking about calling the feds. But I don’t know if that’s a great idea. Everyone will be stepping on everyone else’s toes. We’re still waiting for the crime lab to send us the DNA analysis from the first victim. My guess is it will be another runaway.”
“Travis.” A disturbing thought pops into my head. “Could this be a serial killer?”
He shrugs, nonplussed, as if I’ve asked if he wants more coffee. “Maybe. We’ve had our fair share down here. Hell, we’ve had our fair share in this parish. You remember Derrick Todd Lee?”
I shake my head no.
“He was the Baton Rouge Serial Killer. Stalked girls at LSU. Killed seven. And he was from our parish. Died in prison. Hell, the police chief in Derrick’s town knew it was him. He told the state police, the sheriff, the lead investigator. Nobody listened. And he was right. You just know when it’s one of your own.”
My coffee has lost its flavor. I set it down. “And do you think this is one of your own?”
“I sure as shit hope not. Anything’s possible, I guess, but we’re not saying the wordsserial killeryet. We don’t want to create any hysteria.”
The waitress clanks our breakfast order onto the table, and I jump. “Here you go.”
“Perfect,” Travis says to her with a smile.
My fingers unroll the paper napkin from the silverware and place it in my lap even though I have no appetite.
“This is crazy, Travis.”
“I know. And they’re not helping.” He nods toward the table beside us. “Only one reporter was here a few days ago. But the AP picked up on it, and you know, once they get a whiff of death, they come running.” He scoops a bite of grits into his mouth. “Waiting to see if there’s more.”
I stare at him as he chews.
“What?” He says around the bite in his mouth.
“How can you eat?”
“I’m hungry, that’s how.” He swallows the bite. “And I’d better eat now. It’s going to be a long day.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
Before I can question him, Travis turns to the older ladies sitting next to us and says, “Ladies.” He looks back to me. “Think you might have been spotted.”
“Wh-what?”
He points to the ladies. They wave, then lean in and begin to whisper. I look back at Travis. “Great.”
“Well, I’ll be,” a voice from the table says. “Willamena Pearl Watters.”
