Tami Hoag
A Thin Dark Line
This book is dedicated to the many victims who wait for justice, and to the law enforcement professionals who pursue that justice with dogged determination.
A Thin Dark Line takes place in a setting my longtime readers know is a favorite of mine- Louisiana 's French Triangle. It is a place like no other in this country-ecologically, sociologically, culturally, linguistically. I have done my best to bring some of the rich flavor of the region to you, in part with the occasional use of Cajun French, a patois as unique to Louisiana as gumbo. You will find a glossary for these words and phrases in the back of the book. My sources include A Dictionary of the Cajun Language by Rev. Msgr. Jules O. Daigle and Conversational Cajun French by Randall P. Whatley and Harry Jannise.
My sincere thanks and appreciation to Sheriff Charles A. Fuselier of St. Martin Parish, Louisiana, for your generosity with both your time and your knowledge; for giving me the real tour of bayou country and a lesson in Lou'siana politics. The stories were great, the food was even better. Merci! Thanks also to Deputy Barry Reburn, my in-family consultant on police procedure. Any mistakes made or liberties taken in the name of fiction are my own.
Thanks to Kathryn Moe, Coldwell Banker Real Estate, Rochester, Minnesota, for unwittingly planting the seed of a gruesome idea when you offered to wait for the furnace inspection guy. Hope it doesn't give you nightmares. And thanks once again to Diva Dreyer for the trauma lingo.
Thank you, Rat Boy, wherever you are.
And finally, my most special thanks to Dan for never minding that I'm always on deadline.
Hide your heart under the bed and lock your secret drawer. Wash the angels from your head, won't need them anymore. Love is a demon and you're the one he's coming for. Oh my Lord.
– 'Could I Be Your Girl' Jann Arden Richards
'Red is the color of violent death. Red is the color of strong feelings - love, passion, greed, anger, hatred. Emotions-better not to have them. Luckier not to have them. Love, Passion, Greed, Anger, Hatred.
The feelings pull one another in a circle. Faster, harder, blurring into violence. I had no power over it. Love, Passion, Greed, Anger, Hatred. The words pulsed in my head every time I plunged the knife into her body.
Hatred, Anger, Greed, Passion, Love, The line between them is thin and red. '
Her body lay on the floor. Her slender arms outflung, palms up. Death. Cold and brutal, strangely intimate.
The people rose in unison as the judge emerged from his chambers. The Honorable Franklin Monahan. The figurehead of justice. The decision would be his.
Black pools of blood in the silver moonlight. Her life drained from her to puddle on the hard cypress floor.
Richard Kudrow, the defense attorney. Thin, gray, and stoop-shouldered, as if the fervor for justice had burned away all excess within him and had begun to consume muscle mass. Sharp eyes and the strength of his voice belied the image of frailty.
Her naked body inscribed with the point of a knife. A work of violent art.
Smith Pritchett, the district attorney. Sturdy and aristocratic. The gold of his cuff links catching the light as he raised his hands in supplication.
Cries for mercy smothered by the cold shadow of death.
Chaos and outrage rolled through the crowd in a wave of sound as Monahan pronounced his ruling. The small amethyst ring had not been listed on the search warrant of the defendant's home and was, therefore, beyond the scope of the warrant and not legally subject to seizure.
Pamela Bichon, thirty-seven, separated, mother of a nine-year-old girl. Brutally murdered. Eviscerated. Her naked body found in a vacant house on Pony Bayou, spikes driven through the palms of her hands into the wood floor; her sightless eyes staring up at nothing through the slits of a feather Mardi Gras mask.
Case dismissed.
The crowd spilled from the Partout Parish Courthouse, past the thick Doric columns and down the broad steps, a buzzing swarm of humanity centering on the key figures of the drama that had played out in Judge Monahan's courtroom. Smith Pritchett focused his narrow gaze on the navy blue Lincoln that awaited him at the curb and snapped off a staccato line of 'no comments' to the frenzied press. Richard Kudrow, however, stopped his descent dead center on the steps.
Trouble was the word that came immediately to Annie Broussard as the press began to circle the defense attorney and his client. Like every other deputy in the sheriff's office, she had hoped
