Not One of Us(37)



“Ten thirty. Take it or leave it.”

She scowled a moment and then nodded, her frown turning to a grin. “Deal.”

Had I just been bamboozled? I shook my head ruefully. I couldn’t shelter my kids forever. It was a school event, and Luke would be around as their unwelcome chaperone. Just because I’d experienced that horrific experience at age sixteen, it didn’t mean that Linsey would meet the same fate.

I needed to believe that. Or lose my mind with worry every time one of the twins left the house. It had been so much easier when they were little and content to stay home and play with their mother. I missed those days, hectic as they’d been, keeping up with their double trouble of mischief.

Pizza was delivered within twenty minutes, and after they’d scarfed down their slices, they adjourned to their rooms. I slouched in the recliner with my laptop and pulled up the old Cormier file. It was massive, but I was determined to review the facts. The scanned officer notes in the PDF were often hard to decipher, so it was slow going. The first big surprise was that the police had always worked under the assumption that the family was murdered and not just missing.

They’d found an old camcorder tossed in a bookshelf drawer. Bloody fingerprints on the machine were identified as Deacon Cormier’s. According to the transcript, the video started with the image of Deacon Cormier standing in the den wearing a tuxedo, looking uncomfortable and holding a corsage. There was a short, garbled conversation between him and the camera operator, whose voice was identified as that of his mother, Clotille. A loud noise blasted in the distance. A startled scream followed as the camera suddenly dropped to the floor with a crashing explosion. The video showed only the floor and the base of the fireplace as the audio continued running. Unfortunately, its aim prevented filming of the actual murders. A door creaked open, and Clotille spoke again, her voice high-pitched and terrified. A male voice answered before another gunshot rang out, this time loud and close. Deacon screamed, “Mom!”

A male voice again muttered something unintelligible in the background. Presumably the killer.

A deafening burst of noise erupted, and a second later the picture jolted and went black.

An ominous silence of six seconds ensued, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps and then a door squeaking open. Experts agreed that the most likely scenario was that the killer had walked to the bodies to check and make sure they were dead before leaving the scene of the crime.

Another long silence ensued, only broken by the eerie whir of the recorder. After twenty-two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, the camcorder was lifted and thrown into a drawer. Shortly after, other voices were recorded, their words even more muffled and garbled. Then the picture and the whirring came to an abrupt halt, as eerie and chilling as the stroke of a ghostly, cold finger along the spine.

Information on the video had never been released to the public. It had been held back in hopes of identifying the killer or killers. The tape had been sent to a forensics lab, but they were unable to clearly identify the garbled voice or vocal pattern of the unidentified person in the room, much less match it with any of the persons questioned in the Cormier case.

Also found and not released to the public was a single sprig of flowers with droplets of Deacon’s blood on it.

Had Deacon hidden the camcorder after being injured but before bleeding out? Had the killer been distracted while his victim had the presence of mind to hide evidence that might lead to the man’s identity?

I stopped reading and glanced out the window, stunned by the revelations. I’d only heard gossip about the case prior to now and was surprised to learn that law enforcement officials didn’t buy into the locals’ theory that the Cormiers had staged their own disappearance to either escape legal trouble or avoid some type of Mafia backlash.

One of the original investigators even suggested that the recording itself could have been a hoax deliberately planted by Louis Cormier to make police believe there’d been foul play. Most of the cops didn’t buy into that theory.

But because of Deacon’s bloody fingerprints and the blood on the flower, more than one law enforcement officer theorized that Louis and Clotille might have murdered their son. In a panic, they’d disposed of his body somewhere and then fled the country.

I wiped a hand over my face and got up, pacing the living room. How was it possible that no trace of violence had been detected? If Louis hadn’t been shot inside the home, I wasn’t surprised that no clues had been found on the scene. But two people shot inside? If the killer and/or any accomplice had cleaned up the evidence, they’d done a thorough job. However, it was possible to cover his tracks if all the blood had been wiped away with an active oxygen bleach. The luminol test would not have been able to pick up traces of blood, especially if the cleaning had occurred fairly soon after the crime. Oxy-type products were popular and widely available prior to the 2006 disappearance.

I wished I could call Oliver and talk over the information with him, but he’d already told me to focus my attention elsewhere.

Having at last absorbed those bombshells, I sat down and resumed reading. On a photocopy of Louis Cormier’s business calendar I discovered a new surprise. A small notation on one of the dated squares had me sit up straight, my brain tingling at the unexpected bit of information.

May 4, 2006. Fountain Correctional Facility. Atmore. 2:30 p.m. Raymond Strickland ALDOC# 894502.

The date was about two weeks before Louis Cormier and his family disappeared.

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