Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,32

Beer cans littered the ground below the deck. Weeds and grass grew knee high. The back rooms of the house, to judge by the photographs, were just as bad. Mason’s bedroom looked like a tornado had gone through it. The room he used as an office and guest room had huge holes in the walls and a long brown streak of something across the floor. It didn’t make any sense, and I couldn’t believe I had missed so many red flags.

A practical part of my brain told me that Mason had wanted me to miss them; he’d been careful to cut the grass in front before it got too bad, careful to keep the front rooms relatively clean in case I stepped inside. He’d perfected this mask of looking normal and talking normal and seeming normal, while the reality was that his life was spiraling out of control. That’s what happened with some people suffering from depression. Sometimes, nobody had a clue because they were just so good at hiding things.

That same part of my brain told me that all the pieces were there: Mason had been struggling with severe mental illness, and in spite of seeing a therapist and attending a support group, he clearly hadn’t received the help he needed. People died all the time from mental illness. In my line of work, I was the first one to find a lot of them.

But I had seen those weird blue lights. I knew, in my gut, that there was something else going on here.

From what I could tell, that something else had to do with Elien Martel, or whatever his real name was.

Dark had fallen outside. I packed up the file, grabbed my keys and then, after a moment, my Sig. I headed out through the kitchen. Mom was searing a chicken breast, and the smell of garlic was a powerful lure.

“Dinner’s in five,” she said.

“Save some?”

“Dagobert.”

“I’ll be back later, Mom.”

I was out of the house before she could stop me. I drove to the DuPage Parish Sheriff’s Department offices, which consisted of four buildings of brown brick in a neat cluster on the north side of Bragg. Paid leave meant a lot of things, but fortunately, it hadn’t meant surrendering my keys. I let myself in through the side door, passed the locker rooms, and grabbed an empty workstation. DuPage was a quiet parish, and most of the deputies were either off duty now or out on patrol. For the moment, I had the room to myself.

Logging on, I was relieved to see my username and password still worked. I navigated to the incident reports, found the one that I’d filled out for the wellness check on Ray Fields, and copied Elien Martel’s name and address into my phone. It was entirely possible Elien had lied about where he lived. It was more than possible, actually; if he were involved in this, as I thought he was, then the odds were high that he had lied. But it was my only starting place. If I hit a dead end, I’d go to the support group Tuesday and try to find him that way.

I had just logged out of the workstation when a hand came down on my shoulder.

Amrey Kimmons, chief deputy, smiled down at me, but his hand was tight. He was an older black man, with neatly clipped gray hair, and he never shouted and never blustered. He didn’t need to.

“Deputy LeBlanc,” Kimmons said. “What’s got you in here so late?”

“Just needed to use the computer, sir.”

“You remember that you’re on paid leave, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry. I was trying to check something with my bank, and I couldn’t do it on my phone.”

Kimmons studied me. “Well,” he said, “in case it wasn’t clear, paid leave means you aren’t to be in the office for any reason.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No need to be sorry, Deputy.” Kimmons’s grip eased. “How are you handling things?”

“Well enough, I guess.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“Just my, uh, psych eval, sir. You know.”

Kimmons’s smile broadened. “I meant personally, Deputy. I’m not trying to pry into your personal life, but I want to know if you have someone helping you through this.”

“Oh. No, not seeing anyone. But I’m with my parents still, so I’m not home alone, if that’s what you mean.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” Kimmons said. He released me, patted my shoulder, and said, “I’ll see you when it’s time for you to come back, Deputy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me walk you out.”

He followed me to