Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian 1)

He nodded, then gave the collar a slight jerk as the dog growled again. “Easy, Butch,” he said to the dog, then he looked back up at me. “Ask away, ma’am.”

I asked the usual identification questions, quickly jotting the info down in my notebook, and was surprised to find that he was actually in his early seventies. He was the preacher at a nondenominational church in town—one with which I was familiar, though certainly not as an attendee. It was a popular church—so much so that the church hired off-duty officers to help with traffic control on Sundays. I’d worked that particular detail a couple of times when I was in desperate need of extra income.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“I was out walking Butch this morning. I go out every morning at about five a.m., unless it’s raining.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “Fortunately it does that enough in Louisiana that I get a break every now and then.”

I echoed the smile and waited for him to continue.

“Butch started acting really strange, pulling on the leash and barking. Then he finally pulled right away from me and ran over to the ball field.” Reverend Thomas grimaced. “He was going crazy, and so I had to go get him and pull him back. I saw it was a … body, so as soon as I could drag Butch away, I tied him up here and called 911.” He patted his pocket. “Thank God I always carry my cell phone.”

“Did you see anyone else in the park while you were walking?”

“No, I’m usually by myself this early in the morning. I don’t worry about it too much, since Butch looks fairly intimidating.” He gave me an apologetic smile as the Rottweiler continued to emit a low, unnerving growl in my direction. “I really am sorry. He looks fierce, but he’s normally incredibly placid and friendly. I guess he’s unnerved by the body.”

“But you don’t seem to be,” I pointed out.

He met my eyes. “I was a POW in Vietnam. Unfortunately, I’ve seen quite a bit of what one human can do to another.”

I exhaled. “I see.” I made a note to myself to check his military record. “Do you always walk in this park?”

Reverend Thomas shook his head. “Not always. I mix it up a bit, among this one and the lakefront and some of the parks south of here. Depends on how far I feel like driving. But this one’s closest to my house, so I usually end up here at least three days a week.”

“Do you think you would notice anything unusual? Any vehicles?”

“I think I would notice,” he said. “But, unfortunately, I’m fairly positive that I saw no vehicles other than mine this morning.” He gave me another apologetic smile. “However, I think I can be of help with identifying him.” He gave a nod toward the body, an expression of pain crossing his features.

“You know him?” That would be a hell of a break.

“I … think so. I would have to take a closer look to be sure, but I think it’s a young man who was in a rehab program I used to work with.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “It’s so disheartening when these young people get caught up in drugs. It’s like they’re drowning, but by the time they realize that they’re in the riptide, it’s too late for them.”

I nodded in full agreement. “I know. I’ve watched people completely destroy themselves. It used to be crack, but lately it’s meth.” I closed my notebook. “Would you be willing to come take another look at this victim, to see if you know him?”

He hesitated. “Yes … yes, of course,” he said after a few seconds. He bent and made certain that the leash was well secured to the bleachers, then stood. The dog gave a soft whine and the preacher patted his head. “I’ll be right back, Butchie,” he said, then followed me as I turned and walked back toward the crime scene.

The coroner’s office personnel were just finishing placing the body in the body bag as we approached. The reverend leaned over the bag and then gave a heavy sigh. “Yes, that’s him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Mark Janson. He used to live with his mother, but she died a couple of years ago of various health problems, and after that he just went downhill. He’d always had issues, but she managed to keep him vaguely in line. Without her guidance, he fell apart.”

I wrote the info in my notebook. “Reverend Thomas, you’ve been a huge help. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

“I appreciate everything that you and the other officers are doing.” His smile was warm and sincere. “Please don’t hesitate to call or come by the church.”

“You can count on that,” I assured him as I shook his hand. I could see why his church was so popular. Too bad his dog hated me.

Chapter 7

I made a quick detour home after leaving the scene to grab a shower and change of clothes, then raced back to the station to get started on putting my notes in order. It was nearly mid-morning by the time I made it back, and I circled the tiny lot reserved for detectives and patrol several times, looking for a space, before finally giving up and parking on the street.

The broad glass doors at the front of the station swung in at a touch, revealing a spacious lobby with the Beaulac PD emblem worked into the tile of the floor. A scattering of people sat on chairs, probably waiting for copies of police reports or for appointments with detectives. I avoided eye contact with any of them and went straight to the door that led to the offices, swiping my ID card and heading on through as soon as the lock clicked open.

I hardly ever entered through the front door, but I couldn’t see the point of walking all the way around the building to get to the back entrance that patrol officers and detectives often used. However, using the front entrance meant that I passed right by all the offices for administration and the higher-ups. Normally that was no big deal, but to my surprise I heard my name called out just as I passed by Chief Morse’s office.

I blinked and took a step backward, peering around the door frame in case I’d misheard. It was by no means common for the chief to call random passersby into his office. In fact, he hardly ever associated with the troops, and I didn’t think he even knew my name.

I was wrong. Chief Eddie Morse stood in the foyer of his office, in front of his secretary’s desk, a manila folder in his hand and a slight frown on his face as he looked at me. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, white shirt starched within an inch of its life and tucked perfectly into place, dress slacks immaculately pressed, tie in a tight double Windsor. Not a single steel-gray hair on his head was out of place. “Detective Gillian,” he repeated. “Do you have a minute?” It was asked in a tone that said that he didn’t give a shit if I had a minute or not but that I’d better make a minute.